


Liberationists (1976)

by fabfemmeboy



Series: Immutability and Other Sins [7]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 82,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabfemmeboy/pseuds/fabfemmeboy
Summary: In the new, post-Stonewall, liberated disco era, everything is possible...so why are old dreams so hard to obtain?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTES: Well, you did it – you made it through three fics (and almost two years writing time) of Kurt and Blaine apart…and the good news is that they will be interacting regularly for quite some time (at least 3 years of writing time, I’m guessing)! Just a couple small notes:
> 
> 1\. For those of you who have lost track of time, if this is in the summer of 1976 then they’re all in their mid-30s. So quite a bit of time has passed between the last big fics and this one…but we’ll get glimpses of what they’ve been up to since then.
> 
> 2\. Accordingly, there will be references to both of their previous relationships, hookups, and the like. Fear not – those aren’t central to…well, anything really.
> 
> 3\. Also you’ll notice (or should notice) a significant shift in all the social stuff from the last time we saw both Kurt and Blaine…especially since the last time we saw much of Kurt. It was a big decade for all things gay (and fashion and music). But if you’re worried about the things that were missed – Stonewall itself, the removal of homosexuality from the DSM, the rise of an open culture – there will be quite a bit addressing it. 
> 
> And with that…enjoy!

Kurt rolled his eyes as he looked at the inspiration board hanging over his desk. The problem, he concluded for what felt like the thirtieth time that day, was that it wasn’t remotely inspiring. He didn’t mind orange exactly, and he certainly loved a good plaid, but [this](http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSOUwMzoCWPyTsTXVWpmFiV15K1qF9y1yRpFk-Y5p27wUYex2SG5Q)… _wasn’t_. And while the idea of bell-bottoms had intrigued him back in 1967, now they just felt so passé and almost uncomfortably wide…and flattering on exactly no one.  
  
And would it kill them to do something  _before_  Halston did it instead of three years later?  
  
It was better than last year with its all-denim all-the-time feel – jeans with matching jean shirts and [jackets](http://www.vintagevixen.com/store/pc/catalog/v28553-general.jpg) so housewives were wearing entire suits and thinking it was the height of feminist fashion…if there was such a thing. Rachel seemed to think so anyway. He’d even had his own signature contribution: a [jumpsuit](http://www.rustyzipper.com/full/162852-M47026L.jpg) that looked more at place in his father’s tire shop than on a runway in any fashion capital in Europe. Still, he found himself longing for the innovations and sea-changing styles of a decade ago.  
  
Or for a job at Halston, where at least he would be creating trends instead of jumping on the bandwagon a few years late. Of course, considering that was where just about every designer in the city wanted to be, he supposed for now he was stuck in orange plaid hell.  
  
Still, it was a job where he actually designed instead of cutting underskirts all day, so he guessed things could be worse. He reminded himself of the fact as he picked up a large cut rectangle of the nearest fabric and draped it around the dress form’s shoulders. Maybe a jacket – he had always admired how many options there were, and something with a bit of structure…  
  
No – there was no saving it. He tossed the burnt orange rayon back onto the pile.  
  
Kurt sighed and returned to his chair. He was blocked, that was all. If he started sketching without the fabric in mind, that might help. It was a trick Don had taught him; if the fabric you have to use has you stuck, draw something you like and see if it can fit. It was the opposite of what designers were meant to do, he had said, but for the designers who didn’t have the luxury of complete autonomy it couldn’t hurt. He pulled out his sketch pad and let muscle memory create the form, pencil gliding lightly over the paper until he had a croquis to work from. A plaid jacket – he liked those. He owned plenty of them, anyway, and there was always a market for them.  
  
He found himself sketching a gown instead – long, ruched at the hips to give the illusion of fullness where there was none, with a high slit to show off the leg-  
  
He wasn’t going to get anywhere on work if he kept designing for his night job.  
  
Kurt tossed the sketch pad back onto his desk and leaned over to flick on the [radio](http://youtu.be/pF2otwl4ros). He was disappointed to hear the last chorus of “Lady Marmalade” fading out – nothing could get his creative juices flowing like a rousing song about a hooker. Oh well; they would play it again in an hour, and if he was still stuck he could catch it then. His mild annoyance disappeared as he heard the opening piano chord of the next song, though, replaced by a flutter in his stomach and a giddy grin. He leaned over and turned it up a little just as the beat slipped into the background. He was sure his coworkers were tired of hearing it by now, but he couldn’t help himself.  
  
It wasn’t every day a person heard his oldest friend’s song on the radio…except for him, it  _was_.  
  
On some level he knew it was a little silly to be so stunned and excited every time heard it. He had seen Rachel on Broadway stages for years and had a box full of Playbills with her name and biography in his closet. He had seen his own designs – or at least bits of them – on runways during Fashion Week. But the radio was  _huge_  compared to those things. People all over the city were hearing one of his best friends right now. And she wasn’t just a breakout-star and poised to have one of the biggest hits in New York, either. People back in  _Lima_  could listen to her.  
  
Besides, Mercedes sounded  _amazing_  on the record, which made him even prouder. Some of the disco singers just let the beat carry them, but not her. With the resonance and soul she brought to even an upbeat song about falling for a boy on the dance floor, he had no doubt she would become much more famous than Diana Ross – Supremes or no Supremes.  
  
There were more people who recognize Mercedes’ talent now, thank God, but almost none who could match it. Not one girl on that Disco Divas tour she was on could hold a candle to her voice.   
  
He stood and danced his way over to the dress form again, snagging the plaid on the way. He started draping a shoulder, pinning the fabric directly to the stuffed mannequin, grooving a little from side to side as he tried to figure out where to adjust first. He jumped as he heard a knock on the door frame behind him. Trying to look as smooth and unrattled as possible – and really hoping it wasn’t Jules because the man disliked him and his eccentricities enough already – he turned to see Cindy barely containing a laugh. Of the half-dozen girls who worked as secretarial support for the designers, she was his favourite if only because she actually knew of any of the designers who had been popular before Mary Quant. “Yes?”  
  
“Sorry – I know I should never interrupt you when Mercedes is on,” she grinned. “Message for you. Since it’s about tonight, I figured you’d rather have it sooner than later.”  
  
Kurt closed the distance between them and took the slip of paper. In the ‘from’ field he saw Don’s name and smiled – he hadn’t seen the man in a few weeks. The message was a jumble of fragments: sequin print, risotto at 7 – but Kurt understood loud and clear. “Fantastic,” he grinned to himself. Certainly a better evening than he had thought he would have. He had assumed it would be a night of leftover roasted chicken and Maude, a quick nap, then up to Ricky’s; this would be much better food and company. “Thank you,” he added to Cindy.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she replied, then peered past his shoulder at the dress form. “What’s that going to be?”  
  
“I don’t know yet,” he replied honestly, tucking a bit up around the neck to see how it might look. “What do you think?”  
  
Cindy’s brow lowered in confusion as she stared at it, then forced a clearly fake smile. “Great.”  
  
Kurt raised his eyebrows, not buying it. “Mmhmm,” he replied dryly. “Get back to the front desk.” As he heard her walk away, he unpinned a section and paused to admire the way it draped over the shoulder – almost a capelet. He liked it…a lot, actually, it was old-fashioned maybe but with the resurgence of all things 50-s related right now – Happy Days and that annoyingly-catchy musical – it could work.   
  
He sighed and shook his head. Jules would never approve it – he would say it was too matronly because Halston hadn’t made one.  
  
Maybe he could inlay it somehow into a jumpsuit…  
  
* * * * *  
  
When Kurt had gone to see The Boys in the Band for the first time with Rachel, they had laughed all the way home about the apartment set in which the play took place. Giving a hustler as a birthday present had seemed downright plausible compared to an apartment with a second-floor bedroom and bathroom, a spacious terrace, and that many built-in bookcases on anything less than a lawyer’s salary.  
  
Then he had been invited to Don and John’s new place for dinner.  
  
Nestled in a row of townhouses – “prewar buildings’ as he guessed the ads called them now, as though there were such a thing as a new brownstone – off Waverly but within easy walking distance of the new lofts that were selling for a pretty penny considering they had been meat manufacturing plants barely five years before, the apartment occupied the top two floors of a painfully-narrow space. Even though he doubted the square footage was much larger than the apartment he and Rachel shared, the stairs made it feel bigger, more house-like instead of a walk-up the size of a postage stamp. Plus their kitchen was quite a bit larger than his own, for which he was incredibly jealous.  
  
At a few minutes after 6:30, Kurt ascended the stairs to the front door and pressed the top buzzer. After a moment, he heard the door unlatch as Don buzzed him in. He took the second flight of stairs quickly and knocked twice before entering – his friends insisted. He was immediately greeted by [ABBA](http://youtu.be/dQsjAbZDx-4) and the scent of a fantastic-smelling chicken stock. “Hello?” he called, looking around the empty living room in search of either man.  
  
“In here,” Don called from the kitchen, and as Kurt peeked around the corner the elder man smiled broadly. “Hey – right on time.” He wasn’t; he was half an hour early, but it was what Don always said to him. In the early days, Kurt had tended to accidentally be extra early. He hadn’t been able to help himself, the excitement of being able to spend time with such fantastic personal and professional role models who had actively invited him over had always been too much. But Don, ever conscious of how nervous and excited he was, had never wanted to be cruel and had assured him his timing was perfect. Now, more than a decade later, it was just habit – but one Kurt never minded. “Wine’s on the counter, help yourself. How was work?”  
  
Kurt rolled his eyes in response to the question, and Don laughed in understanding. “It’s a sea of orange polyester. You?” he asked as he stepped over to the counter and glanced at the labels before selecting a white and pouring himself a glass.   
  
“Fantastic. I drew and patterned two great skirts no one will ever see or wear,” he replied. “The glamourless life of a designer striking out on his own.”  
  
The move wasn’t quite new anymore – it had been six months since Don had decided to leave a job he didn’t entirely hate to pursue his own line. John had thought it was the only sensible thing to do, Kurt had thought it was both the craziest and bravest thing he had ever seen for someone to jump in without a net. These days he couldn’t help but be jealous of the creative freedom…but he never had to worry about paying the rent, and he valued that a little too much, especially since Rachel’s work was so prone to ebbs and flows. He needed the stability.  
  
“You just need a buyer. Or a benefactor. Or a near-death little old lady you can befriend,” Kurt suggested.  
  
“They do love a good outfit to wear out all night,” Don replied with a faint smile.  
  
Kurt wasn’t sure when the man had gotten so relaxed; he suspected that it was a gradual shift. But the man cooking risotto barefoot in his kitchen wearing a well-worn pair of tight jeans and a form-fitting western shirt was definitely a world away from the mentor who had befriended him back then. He couldn’t say whether it was a product of age, or being near a dozen thriving gay bars, or creative freedom in general, but the man wore it well…unlike the handlebar mustache Kurt wished he could forcibly shave off.  
  
“Maybe some of them want to relive their flapper days,” Kurt suggested.  
  
Don laughed heartily, cringing. “God, that’s a mental image for you – 75-year-old breasts in a drop waist jumpsuit with sequins and fringe.” Kurt tried to close his eyes against the picture Don painted but yelped as that only made it more vivid, and Don laughed harder. “Sorry – just drink more and it’ll go away. I promise.”  
  
“Or we’ll replace it with something worse.”  
  
“Or that,” Don agreed.  
  
They fell into a comfortable silence before Kurt took a sip of his wine and asked, “John’s working late?”  
  
Don shook his head as he put a lid over the pot on the stove. “With a model upstairs. You know, I think that has to be the biggest perk of photography these days. I caught a glimpse of him on his way up – gorgeous young thing. What he would want with an old man like John is beyond me.”  
  
He said it as casually as if he were reporting that John had stopped by the market to pick up milk rather than his long-term man having sex with a male model right above their heads. Kurt had long since stopped looking for resentment or jealousy in Don’s voice – it wasn’t there. More accurately, there wasn’t any such pain to be found in the man himself.  
  
Kurt couldn’t fathom that. He could appreciate wanting to be with a sexy man, certainly, but e couldn’t imagine cheating on someone he loved. And he  _really_  couldn’t imagine not being furious if someone he loved cheated on him – not just furious, but betrayed.  
  
Don and John had everything he wanted; he didn’t think he would ever understand why that wasn’t enough for them.  
  
But he said nothing. His view was apparently antiquated now – or quaint, at least. A pre-liberation ideal of heterosexual mimicry – tough if heterosexuals were hosting key parties and going to filthy so-called resorts to swing all weekend, he wasn’t sure who was imitating whom anymore. He couldn’t figure out how they had skipped so far ahead – from kissing in parks with the threat of arrest t the ability to practically grope one another on dance floors and have sex with other men in a lovers’ shared apartment. Shouldn’t they have first gotten the right to chaste, cozy evenings together? Or sex with one man who loved you as much as you loved him instead of just ogling each other’s asses from afar? Couldn’t they have that happy medium before letting those who wanted to romp with every mountable man do so?  
  
Still, they seemed happy – happier than he had been with a boyfriend anyway. And if, after 15 years together, they wanted a little spice, who was he to deny the men that?  
  
John’s arrival downstairs was pretold by hurried footsteps down the stairs and the front door opening then slamming shut. “Sounds like someone’s done,” Don joked. A few minutes later, John emerged clad in a black silk robe, hair mussed. “How was he?”  
  
“As good as he looked,” John replied with a smirk. “Jealous?”  
  
“That you saw him first,” Don confirmed with a fond, familiar kiss that looked much more like what Kurt wanted than any model ever could.  
  
“You should be – you too,” he added to Kurt as he slipped over to give their guest a hug. “Did I know you were coming?”  
  
“Probably not,” Kurt replied at the same time Don confirmed, “No.”  
  
“Oh good – I’d hate to think I’d kept you waiting when I should have known better?”  
  
“Can you finish dinner? I have fabric for Kurt,” Don asked.  
  
“Of course,” John replied, taking the spoon and shooing his lover with it. “Go talk shop – we’ll catch up over dinner.”  
  
“Perfect.” Don leaned in to kiss him again lightly, then slipped out from between John and the stove and motioned for Kurt to follow him.  
  
The area that had once been the living room had been converted into a makeshift workspace complete with towering stacks of fabrics in every colour and pattern and texture, a desk covered in tools, and a sewing machine in the corner. It was the only part of their apartment that reminded Kurt of his own. For a blissful six months he’d had a sewing room f his own, somewhere to keep his supplies and half-finished projects out of the way, but Rachel’s marriage inevitably (and completely on schedule) crumbling into dust had taken his spare room as one of its many casualties. Now his sewing room took up the area that would have been used for a dining table if they were ever at home during the same meal time to eat together.  
  
Don moved a partial stack of neatly-folded chiffons and picked up something shiny and multi-coloured; even at a distance, Kurt could see bits of geometric panels in purple hues with sequins and beads cutting across patches of lavender and teal. Kurt approached, already contemplating who he knew with the right skintone to pull it off. Ricky did look fantastic in springy jewel tones, dark enough not to be washed out but not tanned enough to disappear while the lights caught his gown… Don shook it out and in one smooth motion the fabric caught the air and unfurled into a magnificent banner of [hand-painted silk jacquard](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9g1xXeNqBDQ/SsJ_W7cd7II/AAAAAAAAO-s/SvohKdZqgw8/s400/STAVROPOULOS+GREY+HAND+PAINTED+AND+SEQUIN+EVENING+DRESS+C+70S.JPG), resplendent with pinks and purples and greens in rays and spirals. The coloured panes were divided by lines of perfectly-applied beads, and tonal pailettes added texture and shimmer to the background as it moved from pale lilac to lavender to dusky grey to nearly black. Kurt stared, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. The fabric itself was like a work of art, let alone as a dress…Ricky would turn every head in that one. “Where did you get this?”  
  
“I have no idea. It was under that red doubleknit over there – maybe when Clyde’s on 39th went out of business?”  
  
“Even with everything we bought that day, we should remember  _this_ ,” Kurt pointed out. He still had stacks of fabric from the closing sale filling his dining room, some of which he would rediscover periodically, but something this magnificent should never be forgotten.  
  
“I have no idea. But take it.”  
  
“Are you sure? I’m sure wherever it came from it wouldn’t have been cheap-“  
  
“Absolutely,” Don replied, carefully folding the fabric again, sequin-side in. “I won’t use it, but you’ll create something worthy of that gorgeous bead work.’ He paused, looking Kurt up and down. “Those are yours too, right?” Kurt glanced down at his own [clothes](http://img1.etsystatic.com/000/0/5489216/il_570xN.259618565.jpg) - the long belted safari tunic vest and matching pants out of a light grey wool crepe, tall black boots, and black turtleneck, and nodded. “I’m so envious of your eye. No one I know sees menswear like you do.”  
  
Kurt smiled faintly at the compliment but pointed out, “Sadly not everyone shares your opinion.” A few years ago it would have meant the world to him for someone more experienced than he was to appreciate his vision, but that was cold comfort when he spent his days trying unsuccessfully to manipulate hideous fabric into barely-wearable garments.  
  
Don sighed, leaning against the desk. “Jules is a small man with no vision who amasses power by never letting anyone else have the chance to show him up. There’s one in every company, and they rise through the ranks and make everyone beneath them miserable. Eventually they get to the top and either run out every lower-ranked designer or someone discovers how witless they are. Either you leave or they do…but every person I talk to over there says you’re the best.”  
  
“Really?” Kurt was surprised to hear it but tried not to let it show. No one had said anything like that to him.  
  
Don nodded. “Absolutely. Now, I know that doesn’t help  _much_ , but atl east it’s enough to know it’s not you, right?”  
  
Kurt hated to admit that it was true; he had long since given up on caring too much – or caring at all, really – what people thought of him…but knowing the opinion that his designs were all wrong wasn’t a majority opinion was reassuring. He was well-acquainted with a single person thinking he was out of his mind, but it was nice to hear it wasn’t the entire design team. “A little – thank you.”  
  
Don smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now let’s see what other gems we can find here for your night job, shall we?”  
  
* * * * *   
  
By the time Kurt half-staggered up the stairs to his apartment with an armload of fabric, his chances for a nap were virtually nonexistent. He had tried to leave at least twice, but with fun conversation and swapping silk and John deciding to make cookies, he hadn’t quite gotten out of there until after 11. He barely had time to drop things off, pick up the costumes, and get back on the subway if he wanted to make it to Ricky’s when he had promised. He would pay for missing the chance to grab a few ours’ sleep tomorrow, he knew from experience, but staying home was out of the question.  
  
Shifting his bounty to one arm, he fished out his key and nudged it into the lock. As he pushed open the door, he was surprised to hear the television droning quietly in the living room. Rachel always remembered to turn it off before she left for the theatre – she was very conscientious about electricity consumption and its impact on the environment. He closed the door behind himself and set the armload of fabric on the table, then peeked around the corner. Though he doubted a thief or other criminal would leave the tv on instead of taking it, it was new York – stranger things had happened.  
  
Rachel sat on the couch, staring into space. Against the blue glare of the news, he could see her holding a mug of what he assumed from experience to be a post-sow cup of decaffeinated tea with lemon and honey. If she had beaten him home, he was even later than he thought. Ricky would kill him- Oh, who was he kidding? Ricky wouldn’t even be ready yet by the time he arrived anyway. “How was the show?” he asked. She didn’t respond, just cocked her head slightly to the side, sighed, and took a long sip of tea.  
  
Great. So it would be one of  _those_  nights.  
  
Kurt barely held in a sigh of his own but flicked on the light and moved over to the couc. Rachel automatically pulled her knees up closer to her chest to give him room – they had assumed these positions many times before, especially in the past 18 months, and he never minded – honestly. Rachel could be frustrating on occasion, but she was still one of his closest friends and part of that included supporting one another unconditionally…it was just the timing. These conversations never needed t happen on free nights or times he was running ahead of schedule, only when the night was already packed with plans and he was an hour behind. “What happened?”  
  
“Nothing. That’s the problem,” she sighed again. “I sang about learning to follow Jesus for three hours while dressed like a wayward flower child and spent the whole first act hoping Anna would get food poisoning or fall down the stairs or get hit by a scrim so I would get even one line. This isn’t how things were supposed to be – I’m 33 and still in the chorus, understudying a minor featured role as a hooker?”  
  
“Thirty-five,” Kurt corrected automatically, and she silenced him with a glare.  
  
“Where did I go wrong? I was supposed to have so much  _more_  for myself by now. We both were – remember? When we used to talk about our lives and what we would accomplish? It’s been almost 20 years and we’re no better off than when we started.”  
  
“Our apartment’s better,” he offered. He hated when she talked like this; he understood why – she’d had a few really awful years now, both personally and professionally, and between her second divorce and her story segment getting cut from “A Chorus Line,” he wasn’t surprised she was frustrated…but things were so much better now than they had been, and he wished she could see that.  
  
“Not by enough,” she pointed out. “We were supposed to be living in a beautiful prewar brownstone by now – a home befitting a head designer of a successful line and a multiple-Tony-award-winning actress. We aren’t young anymore, Kurt, we’re not supposed to be living in a tiny two-bedroom near Lincoln Center.” He wanted to point out that it hadn’t been so tiny when it was just a one-person apartment, but that would be pouring salt in the wound. She had felt bad about moving in after everything fell apart, and considering the uncharacteristic display of guilt and recognition that not everything was about her, Kurt didn’t want to make her feel any worse about it. “I mean…think about what we thought we’d have by now. Where we thought we’d be. Can you honestly say any of this measures up?”  
  
Kurt wasn’t sure how to respond. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they had first moved to the city…and in a lot of ways it was. They’d been here almost as long as they had lived in Ohio now, and things were so  _different_. He wasn’t sitting on fountains and chasing men through the park anymore, or wandering through the Village in the dark in search of a tiny restaurant with fogged windows. He could walk into any of two dozen bars and be served immediately if he wanted – to say nothing of the entire cadre of men he was about to go dress in gorgeous gowns for a party he never would have imagined back then. He could never have conceived of such things when he left Ohio; hell, back then he’d barely known there were a dozen men like him out there, and it was all so theoretical – he knew there  _should_  be people he could find who would understand him, but how? And where?   
  
But at the same time…  
  
He wouldn’t trade what he had for anything – not in a million years. But he couldn’t deny that this life still didn’t quite match what he’d envisioned for himself back when he set out from Lima in search of a bright future. He’d thought by the time he was 30, he would have his own fashion house – Yves Saint Laurent had only been 27 when he had begun his own line after taking over Dior at 21 – and could walk down the street to see New Yorkers wearing his designs anywhere he went. Where was that professional success he’d expected? Where was the apartment he shared with his boyfriend where he played host to elegant soirees? Where was the boyfriend who did crossword puzzles while he read Vogue and they listened to soundtrack albums from the latest Broadway albums?   
  
He appreciated all the new things he had that he never would have imagined…but was it so wrong to also expect that a few of the things he’d always wanted would have materialized by now?  
  
“Perhaps it’s all for the best,” he suggested, quoting a song from her current show with an awkward chuckle at his own joke. She shot him a harsh look that made clear she didn’t feel like joking tonight, and he fell silent.  
  
“I just don’t know where we went wrong,” Rachel said quietly, clutching her mostly-empty mug in both hands. “We’re so talented – both of us. Why shouldn’t we be just as successful as we planned?”  
  
“I guess there’s a difference between the successes a teenager imagines and what really happens,” Kurt supposed; even the admission felt like failure. It shouldn’t, he reminded himself; he had moved up in the world, and while he wasn’t nearly to his goals yet he wasn’t stuck in the basement cutting yard after yard of tulle anymore. He was designing garments and seeing many of them make their way to the final collections…and even if they weren’t his ideal designs, even if he wasn’t the head designer with all the creative freedom, that was still better than where he had started. “But we’re improving,” he pointed out. “I know not as fast as we wanted, but it’s forward motion-“  
  
“Maybe for you. I’m in the chorus getting passed over by girls  _younger_  than me,” Rachel pointed out. “I’m that old lady now – the one I used to laugh at for still thinking she had a shot. They used to pass me up for being too young, now…” She sighed again. “And maybe if I had someone in my life it wouldn’t hurt so much. But first Brian, then Tom, and I have to ask myself where I went so wrong.”  
  
“Marrying homosexuals,” Kurt replied automatically, and Rachel shot him a dirty look. He couldn’t help it; he’d tried to warn her. He’d spent practically her entire relationships with the men trying to warn her that they weren’t exactly interested in her in the ways she would have liked, but she hadn’t listened – not after her first perfect dates where they exchanged nothing but chaste pecks goodbye, not after Brian had insisted that they wait until marriage because he wanted to be respectful of her and her reputation even though no one in the city cared about that, not for the combined fourteen months Kurt had spent planning her elaborate nuptials...He had done everything short of standing up during the ceremonies to object to the union. Still, after a year and a half with Brian and only eight months with Tom things had fallen apart as each man realized he should be with men instead.  
  
(In the case of poor Tom, he had been caught backstage messing around with four other chorus boys during Intermission in what was apparently not the first cast orgy that week. Kurt wasn’t sure if it was for the best that Rachel had been the one to discover them or not; on one hand, it was a cruel image no wife should have to suffer, but on the other he was pretty sure she would have found a way to deny it had anyone else been the one to relay the news.)  
  
“You’re not doing any better,” she pointed out. “There are certainly gays around now, but you’re as single as ever.”  
  
Kurt shifted, tilting his head. He hardly needed reminding about that. He didn’t know that he had spent his whole life  _single_ , but the relationship he’d dreamed of had definitely eluded him. Still tings were almost harder now; now that sex was so ubiquitous, it seemed like everyone just wanted momentary coupling. He wanted more than that, more than chasing a man through a bathhouse all night or staring down from the balcony at a nightclub to try to make eye contact with the improbably attractive man. He’d had those things, and they weren’t  _bad_ , they just weren’t…  
  
They weren’t evenings at home with soundtracks and magazines.  
  
Still, he had Ricky for those things. And Rachel. And Don and John who were a thousand times more than he would ever have conjured on his own before he moved to New York. That was what was important.  
  
And the fact that Ricky was waiting impatiently in face – and a corset, which never made anyone’s mood better.   
  
“Will you be okay?” he asked. “I was supposed to be uptown an hour ago, but if-…”  
  
She sighed and offered a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. Nothing different about tonight anyway.” He knew it was passive-aggressive, which was apparently a skill all Jewish women mastered somewhere around age 30, but he didn’t feel like getting sucked in tonight. “I don’t understand why you never let me come. The parties sound like fun.”  
  
There were a thousand reasons he wouldn’t let her come. The way she would insist on being the center of attention even though there were men there who were stunning – and brave and spirited…the fact that there were almost no women there at all, certainly not straight women or women who hadn’t spent most of their lives as men…and the fact that he needed a place where Rachel  _wasn’t_. If she was going to live in his apartment and cook in his kitchen even though she didn’t really know how to cook and stay such a huge part of his life, he needed to keep at least some of himself separate. He loved her in a way he couldn’t really explain, especially considering how their relationship had begun, but they weren’t 18 and using each other anymore. He had gotten used to having more of his life to himself during her marriages, and her attempts to worm her way back into every aspect of his day that didn’t have to do with work now felt strange and forced and like going backwards.   
  
“And I want to see a place where black gays can be so  _empowered_  - where else can transvestites dress and strut like Pam Grier?”  
  
…but mostly because she would say things like  _that_.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt hurried up the steps out of the 135th Street subway station, trying not to think about how late he was. He carried four garment bags over his shoulder, fingers looped through the hangers and straining from the weight of all the fabric and sequins; in his other hand, he held a [train case](https://img1.etsystatic.com/013/0/5925605/il_570xN.439540073_dkhz.jpg) filled with everything he might need – twelve colours of thread, needles, scissors, spare buttons and rhinestones and pailettes and hooks and eyes – and over his shoulder he had looped his matching bag filled with accessories, hair products, his shoes, and the fabric Don had given him.   
  
He didn’t know why he was so worried about time. Though the ball was supposed to start at midnight, he didn’t think they had ever gotten there before 1. Still, Ricky tended to get antsy if his gown was late, for reasons Kurt could understand, and he didn’t particularly want to deal with that tonight.  
  
No matter what time of day he climbed the six flights to Ricky’s apartment, Kurt would never cease to be amused by the fact that it was easy to tell from the thin walls exactly where in the building other gay men lived. From apartment 21, he could hear the new Diana Ross single; apartment 46 brought him minute 6 of “Love is the Message,” which he could guarantee he would hear in its eleven-minute entirety at least once tonight; apartment 52 was blaring Donna Summer. As soon as he turned the landing between the sixth and seventh floor, he could hear a familiar bassline coming from 71, and as he ascended the final stairs a power-wailing lead singer added over top, muffled by the door but not so much that he couldn’t tell exactly what song would be awaiting him when he finally reached the apartment.   
  
Though normally Ricky’s door would be locked with three extra bolts for safety, any time after 9 the door was unlocked and waiting for anyone who might be wandering past to either steal something or come apply makeup – Kurt guessed in this building, those were the only two options. He shifted the train case and twisted the knob with his fingertips, pushing open the door to see exactly the [frenzy](http://youtu.be/GibSfptSkGk) he expected. The tiny front room looked like a trim store had exploded, with every conceivable surface covered in feathers, sparkle, and fringe – or in tiny pots and tubes of makeup that ranged from cheap drug store brands to “good stuff” funded by boyfriends and side jobs. He counted eight people in the hundred-square-foot space, all in different stages of the nightly transformation from men to superhuman Amazonians with elaborate maquillage and cinched waists that would make any girl envious – or cringe. Over the music he heard the cackle of laughter and friendly barb-tongued insults; he must not be too late if he wasn’t hearing the clack of shoes yet. Those always came last.  
  
Though it felt like a different planet, Kurt could feel himself immediately relaxing as the concerns about time and Rachel and irritation about work melted away. He draped the garment bags over the first free chair he saw and set the train case on Ricky’s kitchen counter; though it was barely a square foot and not nearly enough to be useful for cooking (or anything else), it was a place he could be sure the sewing kit wouldn’t get lost.  
  
Milan saw him first, from her position at the nearest makeup table, and she waved – mascara still in hand – calling out “Oh good, baby, you’re here. Miss Thing’s in the bedroom waiting for her gown. Love the boots.”  
  
“Thanks,” Kurt replied. “How long has he been worried?”  
  
“Oh not too long. Is mine in there?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Kurt nodded. “Let me get this in to Ricky and then-“  
  
Milan nodded. “Gotcha baby. I’ve gotta finish my face anyway, take your time. You know these things never start on time anyway.”  
  
Kurt grinned and sifted through the garment bags until he found the one he needed, then grabbed his luggage and carried both through the room and to the left, knocking on the door twice before pushing it open. Ricky stood at the center of the room, already wearing his corset and bra, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror as he fussed with the placement of his wig. The [cascade](http://www.hairarchives.com/private/archive2/evolution/evol.htm)of shiny black rolled curls began on top of the head and worked their way dramatically down one side, and Ricky seemed to be hurriedly trying to pin as many places as possible on the non-curled side in an effort to keep the monstrous hairpiece balanced. He muttered curses around a mouthful of bobby pins, then caught sight of Kurt in the mirror and turned around. With a quick motion he swiped the pins from his mouth and beamed, “Vonny! Thank God – I’ve fought with this about all I can. Is it done?”  
  
“Better than done,” Kurt replied, [unzipping](http://shard4.1stdibs.us.com/archivesE/jewelry/upload/128/1208/128_1347248416_6.jpg) the garment bag. He watched Ricky’s face as the young man’s eyes widened and mouth dropped a moment, then spread into an ecstatic grin. “And you have to see the new fabric I have for you. It’ll leave this one in the dust.”  
  
“How? It’s perfect.” Ricky walked over, pushing back the vinyl protecting the dress and running his fingertips over the gold bugle beads Kurt had spent way too many hours painstakingly sewing on by hand. “You were right about the navy,” he added, nodding.  
  
“Black would have been too severe, but it’ll read as dark under those lights.”  
  
“Perfect – get me into it?” He stepped in front of the mirror again, securing the back of his wig while he waited for Kurt to set everything down and free the dress from its hanger. Kurt slipped down the side zipper and helped his best friend step into it. Ricky shook his head, grinning as Kurt zipped him up and smoothed the sides carefully. “I’m never taking it off. What am I going to do when you get famous and I have to go back to buying off the rack?” he joked.   
  
“You never bought off the rack,” Kurt pointed out.  
  
“Fine – stealing off the rack,” Ricky amended with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Help me with those bracelets there?” he added, pointing to the stack on the nightstand. Kurt reached over and snagged them, glad he wasn’t trying to find them in the mass of jewelry scattered across the top of the dresser. He took Ricky’s wrist and looped the bracelet beneath, fussing with the clasp. A lot of what Ricky had were older pieces with finicky fastenings, and this was no exception. “One of these days you’ll realize how good you are and start giving us a run for our money.”  
  
It was an old conversation and one Kurt had long since tired of. He had no particular desire to do what they did; he loved a good costume, of course, and his closet was filled to the brim with ball-appropriate jackets and shoes he had embellished just for the occasion. But gowns would never be him. Makeup would certainly never be him.   
  
He was never quite sure how to explain why not; there was no good way of separating himself from the group without it sounding like he was diminishing what they did. Ricky looked amazing in a dress – and not just because he cinched himself into an impossible silhouette and had access to much better makeup now than he had a decade before. His friend lit up this way, walked so much taller when they strode into the darkened ballrooms and basements where throngs of men danced and competed…Kurt just lit up when people wanted him to design for them. He loved seeing his work on people, moving and swirling down makeshift runways; he didn’t need to squeeze himself into a dress to enjoy himself.  
  
“I’ll let you deal with the heels all night,” he replied, and Ricky laughed softly.  
  
“Mm – but they look so good.”  
  
“Beauty is pain.” Kurt finished fastening the bracelets and stepped back to look Ricky up and down. He picked a wayward strand of white thread off his hip, then nodded in approval. “You’re going to clean up tonight.”  
  
“You think?” There was still a faint vulnerability to Ricky’s grin that Kurt knew no one else was allowed to see. In front of everyone else, Ricky knew he was the best girl in that room. But here, with just the two of them, he could see the genuine smile behind the dark red lipstick.  
  
“I know,” Kurt replied.  
  
“I still say you’ve gotta walk at least once, Vonny.”  
  
“As what?” Kurt asked, crossing his arms and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Butch?” There were a dozen categories or more for the drag queens, ranging from best walk to best gown to best face, but for anyone who didn’t come in a dress there was only one: butch. He was pretty sure his runway walk wouldn’t be considered quite manly enough for that.  
  
Ricky laughed. “Mm – you may have a point. That lesbian who comes with Crystal’s group would beat you in a heartbeat.” Kurt shot him a look, which made Ricky giggle and wrap him in a hug. It was the last time all night he would be taller; once his best friend donned heels, he would be the shortest in the group. As it was, Ricky’s hair was already taller than his own. “Go ahead and worry about the other girls. I’ll finish up in here.”  
  
“Finish up what? You look great,” Kurt replied, and Ricky grinned as he pulled back.  
  
“A girl can always have more makeup to do. Go,” he shooed him, and Kurt laughed as he headed back into the front room.  
  
Though Ricky’s apartment wasn’t the largest around, it wasn’t hard to see why it was the default place to get ready; not only was it the closest to most of the ball locations, but his lack of roommates meant no one had objected when he had turned the entire living room into a giant dressing room. Lighted vanities and makeup tables that had been amassed from a few dozen thrift stores and block sales lined two walls; the third was taken up by two full-length mirrors and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with shoes and Styrofoam wig heads. With the walk-in closet, Kurt couldn’t imagine many places would be better for a base of operations.   
  
He walked back over to the chairs where he had left the garment bags, slipping two of the pile and carrying them over their recipients. He loved this part best, showing off his handiwork, and he couldn’t help but prance a little in excitement. “Voila,” he said as he laid one bag over the back of Milan’s chair.  
  
“Thanks, baby,” she replied, staying very still as she applied lipstick. “How much do I owe you? Did you really only say $45?”  
  
Don thought he was crazy. John thought he was absolutely out of his mind. But he couldn’t bring himself to charge what things would sell for when he knew how at least a few of them paid for things. Even if things weren’t as dire as they once had been, Kurt guessed as long as there were men who wanted sex that was considered… _unconventional_ , there would be men they could pay to get it. He knew at least a few of the queens he knew worked on the side to pay for everything above basic essentials, and he couldn’t-…the idea of taking money from friends that they earned by blowing dirty old guys too scared or too creepy to even go to a bathhouse made him queasy.  
  
He knew Ricky still did it – and still claimed he enjoyed himself and it was none of Kurt’s business. So he didn’t ask questions anymore. But that didn’t mean he felt any more comfortable charging much beyond the cost of supplies.  
  
Besides. This was his hobby; it didn’t have to make money. If it paid for the materials and maybe bought the supplies for his own costume for the night, he considered it a win.  
  
By 12:48, they were as ready as they were going to be. The [beaded dress](http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/62/eb/fc/62ebfcbe39e58e6919c43b13b4828231.jpg) that had looked short while he worked on it looked shorter than anything Rachel had worn even in 1966 once Milan actually slipped into it, but with her miles of arms and legs she looked incredible, and the white-gold was even better than Kurt had expected against her cocoa-brown skin. And Renee’s shoulders were narrowed perfectly in the [floor-length sheath dress](https://img0.etsystatic.com/009/1/6303663/il_340x270.449485360_fqmv.jpg) that looked right at home under her afro wig…though Kurt wasn’t sure how much sense it made to create a wig that was designed to look like a woman wearing her hair “natural.”   
  
But Ricky walked like the belle of the ball from the time he strutted out of the bedroom – head held high, lips pursed, train of his gown flowing behind him. It was hard to deny he was their leader as the rest of them fell into easy formation behind him; Kurt, in his [black paisley jacket and ruffled shirt](http://www.paisleybabylon.com/itempics2000/0002639c.jpg), took his usual place at Ricky’s right hand as they stepped out, ready to navigate the twelve dark blocks to the basement ballroom where their evening would really begin.


	2. Chapter 2

For a few moments as Blaine awoke, he could almost forget. Tucked under his  **[afghan](http://www.crochetconcupiscence.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/1970s-crochet-blanket.jpg)**  against the early-morning chill that blanketed San Francisco, he could imagine that the warmth was not his own; unfortunately there wasn't anything he could do to make the bed feel less empty. There was no sleeping form beside him, no sandy curls on the pillow, no thigh pressed against his own...nothing but himself and the slight roughness of acrylic fibers against cotton  **[sheets](http://img1.etsystatic.com/000/0/5144369/il_340x270.336404341.jpg).**  
  
He still didn't understand what had happened. One day he and Austin had been perfectly happy, cooking together after work, picking out clothes for each other, bringing home flowers just because, and the next Austin packed up, tossed out some platitudes about how it wasn't Blaine and he wasn't ready for something serious and needed to take time for himself and he hoped they could be friends. Then with a key on the counter and a disinterested "goodbye" over his shoulder, he had been gone while Blaine stood in the middle of the living room, confused and numb. even now, two weeks later, Blaine couldn't see where he had gone wrong. Things had been going so well...

  
He wished it were an unfamiliar pattern, but by now it was all too standard. This was how things always ended - with a sudden departure and vague, dumb reasons they could have just  _talked_  about if his boyfriend ever bothered to tell him something was wrong.  
  
The apartment -  _their_  apartment - felt too empty. Too quiet.  
  
He glanced at the clock and reluctantly dragged himself out of bed, shivering as his feet hit cool hardwood. His pajama bottoms dragged slightly as he padded into the kitchen to start breakfast - they had never dragged when Austin wore them. Blaine sighed deeply - it was his own fault for picking a man he could share clothes with; even his own held painful memories now. He would go shopping this weekend and these pajamas along with too many of his formerly-favourite shirts would be relegated to the box in the back of his closet where he kept the relics of relationships past: two ties Eric had left behind, a copy of Pet Sounds he had accidentally forgotten to return to Ron (though his love of the album had required that he buy a second copy because he wasn't about to go without listening to anything so amazing for the rest of his life - no man was worth that), the book Peter had given him, and a small pin with the image of a warbler he hadn't been able to leave in Ohio when he moved the first time.

  
He scowled at the cake pan on the counter, still half-full of crumbly dessert after he had spent much of last night curled up on the couch with nothing but the pan, a fork, and Karen Carpenter to ward off the vacant silence of the apartment. He should have put it away properly last night - it wouldn't be as good now, half-stale.   
  
Still, he pulled plastic wrap from the drawer and carefully covered it; if he cut off the edges it should still be edible.  
  
Blaine fixed himself coffee and toast then carried them to his favourite spot in the apartment. The bay window in the living room had sold him on the place practically from the moment he walked in. From his [chair](http://littleecofootprints.typepad.com/.a/6a00e55397a5c288340134857ec9a1970c-800wi) he could watch the Castro come alive each weekday - or stagger home to bed on weekend mornings. Dozens of men in wide-lapeled polyester suits meandered along Noe Street, up the hill toward Market and the trolley cars that would carry them to work. They were the only ones up and about for now, shopkeepers would follow later after he had finished his breakfast and was on his way. He had lucked into not having a class first period this year, and he didn't look forward to going back to that in September. he might have been used to beating the rising executives to work, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it - especially when the alternative was taking a few extra minutes in the morning to stop, breathe, and watch the world.  
  
He would never have been able to imagine a place like this growing up - no one could have. Even a decade ago, knowing Polk Gulch was out there, he couldn't have pictured anywhere  _this_  open. Leather daddies walked around in chaps in broad daylight for crying out loud, and no one minded. all up and down the sidewalk at any hour of the day or night he could hear men whose voices his father would have considered a sure sign of sickness - giggling and calling out together, unashamed as they swapped tales of hot men at bath houses and amateur drag nights.  
  
It felt like he knew all of them. He couldn't say 2/3 of their names because he'd never known them, but they were all familiar. All  _family_  - they understood each other, the hardships they had faced growing up across the country before making pilgrimage to San Francisco, driven by the need for somewhere to put down roots and grow in a safe, nourishing environment.  
  
Some of the men here had fared even worse than he had: marriages that had ended in contentious divorces, their names getting dragged through the mud all over their hometowns, children they were forbidden from ever contacting again...He'd been so close to that same path. But for Peter- he liked to think he had paid the help forward, brought a few of the men he'd dated back from the brink of making terrible mistakes because they were afraid, but really it had all been thanks to their own strength and bravery.  
  
He wondered how many other men were out there, stuck in Ohio - or Kansas or Wyoming or Florida - and feeling miserable, wishing they could do anything to make these feelings go away. How many had families who derided this beautiful, welcoming city as "the land of fruits and nuts" and scared the men away from even dreaming that there might be a place for them. How long so many of them had waited before packing their entire lives into a single suitcase or an overstuffed backpack and board one of the dozen Greyhound buses that arrived every day, striking out on their own in search of anything that would feel better than the lies they had been living up until that point.  
  
It didn't make him miss Austin any less, but the injection of a little perspective did help buoy his spirits enough to down the last of his coffee and push himself up from the chair to get ready for work. There would be another man for him - and even if that man wasn't here in the city yet, he would be soon.   
  
* * * * *  
  
If there was anything Blaine had learned from his nine years as a teacher, it was that one could never underestimate the power of dumb bureaucratic rules to ruin things. He could handle notes about what was or wasn't age-appropriate music for his students, though he liked to point out that they were teenagers and probably listened to "Afternoon Delight" on their own time anyway and certainly were doing more than any disco song was allowed to sing about, and his face didn't even fall anymore when the assistant principal - a man with a high-and-tight haircut and no sense of fun as though he were perpetually stuck in a bootcamp where singing was strictly forbidden - tried to question whether music was really "necessary" for students to succeed; he thought it was sad that the man had so little appreciation for the power of a song's emotion and how much that could mean especially to teenagers who didn't really know how to express themselves yet, but it didn't faze him anymore.  
  
But even now, he could not fathom why on earth he needed to be present at the school - and in his classroom - during finals. Students didn't even come to his classroom during the last three days of school, thanks to an adjusted schedule to give time preference to non-elective classes, and aside from conducting the choir during graduation his obligations for the year were completely done. His grades were calculated - not hard since only Music Theory had any kind of written exam - and paperwork complete, and yet there he was forced to sit.  
  
Alone. In silence. For seven hours.  
  
He couldn't imagine anything he would want to do less right now. At least if he were allowed to sit in his empty apartment, he could sing awhile...but he was pretty sure the students wouldn't like it very much if they were disturbed in the middle of their chemistry finals by a rousing rendition of "My Eyes Adored You."  
  
He just couldn't wrap his head around where he had gone wrong. Was it that they moved too fast? It had been his idea to move in together, sure, but things had been going so well and they spent practically every night together anyway. Had he done something? Or  _not_  done something? And why couldn't Austin have at least told him before just leaving like that? They could have talked about it, and he would have done...whatever it took.   
  
His effort didn't usually do him much good, but he always tried. He had tried with Jim, the terrified boy he'd met at a party on-campus and coaxed gently into self-acceptance, only for Jim to discover he was so inspired by the help Blaine had offered that he wanted to do the same for others. He had tried with Ron, but the divide between a first-year graduate student and a first-year teacher was just too much, as it turned out, and things had fizzled out quickly over his inability to go out to parties every night (even if he had wanted to, which he hadn't). Attempts to move Ron out of so many alcohol-filled circles had been fruitless and, apparently, "patronizing as hell." He had tried even harder a few years later, and on the surface things with Eric had seemed like they had all the potential in the world - he was a second-year teacher, so they weren't in such different places in their lives as he had been with Ron, but Eric had been so inspired by the Stonewall Riots that he had decided to move to New York and "be the change."  
  
He had been tempted at first, so inspired by stories of men fighting back, but any way he looked at it, if he was going to be the change he wanted to see in the world, that meant staying put and fighting for San Francisco's own Stonewall - there had been a few things that came close already, and he so wanted to be there to be part of it when the gay liberation powder keg exploded over his city. In reality it hadn't been quite so incendiary but was still more magical than he could ever have expected, so he couldn't regret not going with the young man. Not now, anyway.  
  
Still, it was hard not to feel like his best was never good enough for the men he met.  
  
A knock on the doorframe shook him from his revery, and he blinked to try to clear away his thoughts as he turned to see Randy standing at the threshold. "Are you as bored as I am?" The art teacher's tall frame filled the doorway as his bass voice rumbled through the room. Blaine wasn't sure he had ever met someone whose speech could be simultaneously so sibilant and deep in his chest before, and he had to admit that watching people who meet the man for the first time could be fun - watching them try to figure out what to make of him, deciding whether he was gay because of the pronunciation and mannerisms or not because of his size and voice...as though gay men couldn't come in every conceivable size. Though the man did make him feel shorter than usual, he had to admit...but at least he made  _everyone_  feel short. It was almost better that way.  
  
"More," Blaine replied. "You at least have portfolios to grade."  
  
Randy shrugged. "I saw all the pieces once already."  
  
"Then why do it?" he asked, narrowing his eyes a little. He'd always thought the reason for a portfolio was to see growth and development over the year and grade based on the progression, so that students who started out far behind but worked hard and improved wouldn't be penalized even if their work wasn't as good as the born artists. That was how he tried to grade his students, anyway, but it was easier to see with visual arts.  
  
"So I have a final grade to enter," Randy replied. "Mostly I'm just packing up all the halfway-decent supplies to take home for the summer. Last year all the oil pastels went missing - who needs 28 sets that are already beaten to hell?"  
  
"Someone who plans on being prolific over the summer?" Blaine suggested, and Randy chuckled.  
  
"Good - your sense of humour's intact. I thought I'd find you in here moping over the infant," he stated, a raise of his eyebrow making clear that he was fully aware what Blaine had been doing when he arrived.  
  
Blaine shifted. "He wasn't an infant," he protested. "He was almost 28."  
  
"Twenty-seven is hardly the age for a boyfriend of a 36-year-old. Everyone likes a good piece of chicken now and then, but-"  
  
"That's not what it was," Blaine stated firmly. There were men who liked their boys young, usually guys he couldn't imagine ever wanting anything to do with - old, unattractive, interested only in themselves, using handsome blond 18-year-olds who didn't know any better as a status symbol. He couldn't imagine ever doing something like that, certainly not to someone vulnerable. Young men like that should be helped, taught, guided, protected...and Austin hadn't been  _that_  young. Twenty-eight in the Castro was halfway to  _Old_.  
  
"Okay." Randy held up his hands in surrender. "I get it. The pretty young thing was your soulmate...who left you with no warning or reason." When Blaine didn't seem amused, the man's expression softened a little. "What are you doing tonight?"  
  
"Thanks, but I don't think-"  
  
"By which you mean you plan to wallow all night with a Carole King album and a Betty Crocker chocolate cake you eat right out of the pan," Randy surmised.   
  
Blaine couldn't lie, but he couldn't bring himself to admit that the description bore a striking resemblance to his previous evening. And that there was still half a cake left... "There...was no Carole King album," he replied, his protest sounding weak even to his own ears.  
  
"Carpenters then?"  
  
"...'A Song for You'," he confirmed, and Randy smirked in victory.  
  
"Not tonight. You're coming with me - you've gotta get out of your apartment for a night. Meet a hunky man for some fun."  
  
Blaine blushed and tried to look past Randy to be sure no one was in the hall to overhear. He didn't hide who he was, at least 2/3 or so of the teachers definitely knew he was gay, but it wasn't the sort of thing a person could announce around children, even teenaged-ones.   
  
...A few students knew. Ones he thought needed to know, ones who were struggling or scared or trying to figure out where they belonged. It helped them, he could tell, and of all the parts of his job he enjoyed, creating an environment where students could be safe like that was the one he enjoyed the most and wouldn't trade for anything in the world.  
  
He wondered sometimes how different things could have been if he'd had someone like that growing up, if there had been a teacher at Dalton who was different, someone he could have talked to, an adult who could have shown him it was possible to live a full life somewhere other than prison or an institution despite loving another man. He would never have been the one to find the teacher first, he knew Kurt would have sussed it out long before he could have, but he also knew Kurt would have insisted on taking him. Maybe he could have avoided the bulk of his mistakes that way. At the very least, he could have spent fewer years feeling miserable, and if he could save the kids he taught even a day of that agony, he would tell them anything that would help them. Things were different now than they had been in 1959, for which he was grateful every single day, and he couldn't wait until the next generation didn't even know to be afraid. Maybe the day wasn't here quite yet, but by the time these current students were out of college and teaching, passing their knowledge and confidence on to students, they could be just like every other teenager instead of a closed-off shell of fear and self-loathing. By the 80s, they could put that painful mess behind them all and focus on better, more important, more normal things.  
  
But that didn't mean he wanted to deal with the rammifications of Assistant Principal Meltzer wandering by and lecturing them on not polluting young minds with sexual exploits. Blaine wondered if the man had any idea how many sexual exploits the students were already having. Free love - like gay liberation - was here to stay.  
  
"I don't need you to help me find someone."  
  
"I know. But if I don't drag you out, you won't go. Twin Peaks at 9?"  
  
The bar wouldn't be too busy yet and might still be in that awkward mostly-dead time where a handful of men tried awkwardly to check each other out from perches across the room but no one was drunk enough yet - or bored enough yet - to contemplate anything more than looking; the pre-rush crowd was kind of slim pickings. But considering they still had to be at work in the morning, Blaine nodded. "Sure. Okay. Sounds fun actually." He wasn't sure it sounded fun exactly, but he would try to convince himself of it until it worked. He'd done it before with a reasonable amount of success.  
  
Besides - it wasn't like someone cared if he was home at a particular time.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The Castro didn't really begin to come alive until after the sun went down. That was when it transformed from a nice little neighbourhood, the sort of place where people new to town paid relatively little for turn-of-the-century homes that had been abandoned by their former working-class Irish owners as they fled for the suburbs, to the sort of place people actively fled from. During the day - at least if one avoided the belly-dancing boys on the corner of 18th, which most did - it was easy to envision what the place might have looked like back when it was still just Eureka Valley; but at night, as the Castro Theatre marquis gleamed with red lights and men streamed from bar to bar in search of the best time, it was somewhere entirely different.  
  
Blaine wove his way through the sea of  **[men](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-axeoWiLvODo/UfmqrM_VPMI/AAAAAAAAFlU/50Qc0pxkE8M/s1600/castro+clones+1977b.JPG)**  with jeans just as tight as his own. He was never sure he'd look quite as good as they did in them - he didn't dislike his body generally, but when everyone was a head taller than him and so much broader...he had gotten his shoulders and biceps into a shape he liked, appearing bulkier than they were because he had managed to keep his waist trim, but something about the men just exuded rough masculine sexuality in a way he was never able to master. They were cowboys, the type of man who could tame the west and hogtie livestock and do all sorts of things he would just feel silly trying. Most of them probably didn't even know musicals or old movies - that aspect of culture had seemingly stayed underground when everything else rose into public life, as though despite being the stereotype of homosexuality that everyone knew it was too embarrassing to embrace openly.  
  
It was almost funny sometimes if he thought about it: he had spent most of his early years trying to seem more manly to avoid being seen as a homosexual, and here he was in his mid-thirties feeling like he wasn't nearly macho enough for gay standards. He didn't seem working-class enough to pull off the right attitude - and he  _wasn't_. Still he had to wonder what his father would have said about men like the ones who surrounded him now; it was hard to argue that the men who looked like they were right out of an outdoors magazine suffered from an overly-close relationship with their mothers. They certainly didn't fit any of the old theories of gender-inversion, that was for sure, but could it be overcompensation when it was adhering to the popular gay style? He guessed the man would probably say they were all trying to distance themselves from their clear sickness, creating almost a mass delusion of normalcy as part of a coping mechanism.   
  
His father could say what he wanted. It wasn't an illness anymore - it wasn't even illegal in California thanks to the law changing last year. The police didn't always like to acknowledge that, but it was leaps and bounds better than it had been before.   
  
He paused at the front of the  **[Twin Peaks](http://ebar.com/images/articles/22_12_Political_Notebook_50_LRG.gif),** a bar sitting proudly at the top of the hill where Market crossed Castro Street and 17th. From the main thoroughfare where the trolley stopped, anyone could see the bar's patrons through plate glass windows that curved around both sides of the establishment. Back in Polk Gulch it had all been heavy wooden doors and boarded-up windows to hide everyone inside, conceal whatever might be going on inside. He looked back down the hill in the direction from which he'd come and smiled as he saw the sidewalks filling with men beginning their evenings - grabbing a quick bite to eat with friends before making their way to bars and finishing the evening doing all manner of raunchy things at the baths.   
  
It wasn't his idea of an ideal night, groping through dark, sticky rooms until his hands met anonymous flesh, but they seemed to enjoy it. He preferred to know the name of the man he was having sex with, but he seemed to be an aberration that way.   
  
This was a mistake - he should just go home and eat the rest of the cake. He was just going to spend the entire night missing Austin and hoping to see him out so they could talk and maybe even reconcile... he glanced inside to see if Randy was there yet, because he hated to think of his friend sitting alone in the bar for a couple hours because he had weaseled out of the engagement; his eyes met the man's broad figure settled in among the men who looked equally fantastic in their western shirts. Now he had a dilemma: could he in good conscience leave even though he knew Randy was already there and therefore couldn't claim to have missed him somehow? Or did he at least have to go in and pretend to make an excuse to leave? The latter never worked out the way he planned, which meant he could either leave now or be stuck for at least a few hours-  
  
His hesitation cost him; Randy glanced up and caught sight of him, a grin of recognition flashing across the man's face. He couldn't very well leave  _now_. Forcing down a sigh and pasting on the best smile he could muster, he pulled open the door and sidled onto the bar stool beside Randy's. "Sorry, am I late?" he asked, though he knew he wasn't, as he flagged down the bartender and held up one finger to request a beer. He had discovered, through a lengthier process of trial and error than he wanted to admit to, the precise amount of beer he could handle over what period of time - one if he was out for a couple hours, two if he was out four or more. Any more and he would start to degenerate into a man he had gladly left behind a decade ago...but any less and a night out looking for a man at a bar was even more awkward than it had to be.   
  
The Budweiser was nice and cold, but he had to admit he missed Coors. Nowhere sold it anymore, since the boycott, and even though he agreed with what people were saying - and he liked the idea of the community standing up and saying they would use what little force they had to effect change - he missed having the option. But he wasn't about to support anyone who made their employees take a polygraph to prove they weren't gay before they were hired. That was just ridiculous...and cruel. And so backwards - they weren't in 1950 anymore, they were in the last quarter of the century now.   
  
"See? Isn't this better than sitting around in the dark with the Carpenters?" Randy prodded. Blaine wasn't sure he could say  _that_ , at least not yet, but he didn't want to be petulant or rude.  
  
"Yes - thanks," he replied with the best smile he could.   
  
"No one ever went wrong using a man to get over his troubles. Now let's pick one out for you."  
  
"I don't know-" Blaine started to protest weakly, but Randy swiveled on his stool to face the room, back against the bartop.   
  
"Let's see. You like blonds, right?"  
  
"It doesn't matter."  
  
"Really?" Randy eyed him sideways. "The last two have been."  
  
"The four before that weren't," Blaine pointed out. If anything most of them had been in the light-chestnut family, but that wasn't at all what he looked for in a boyfriend. Some men, sure, they had types and stuck to them pretty closely, but for him it was much more about an attitude, a style, an intangible-  
  
He froze as he caught sight of familiar blond curls across the bar. He had spent hours fighting to remind himself that the fantasy of finding Austin here was unlikely to be fulfilled, and yet there he was - as handsome as ever, rakish grin lighting up everything Blaine could see, striped t-shirt accentuating every line of his trim figure as well as his pale blue eyes...he looked even better than Blaine remembered. He could feel his chest aching even at just the sight of him; he had missed him so much, so  _intensely_ , every moment of every day for two weeks now, and now with the man he'd loved for three months right in front of him-  
  
"What's-" Randy started to ask, then caught sight of where Blaine's eyes were fixed. "No. You can't."  
  
"Of course I can," Blaine replied. He drew in a deep breath to steel his nerves; when that didn't work, he  **[downed](http://youtu.be/0ouMaLRth-s)**  the rest of his beer and hoped that might help.   
  
"It's a really bad idea, man, he's moved on - and so should you. C'mon, we'll find you one of the six dozen other guys here tonight-"  
  
"You don't understand. He just left before we could even talk about things," Blaine pointed out. "If we talk, we can work things out. All of it's just a misunderstanding, and I owe it to myself - and to him, to what we had together - to do everything I can to fight to win him back. Now," he set his empty bottle on the counter and hopped off the stool. He felt a little more unsteady than he'd expected, but he could do this. He had to do this. "I'll be back. Ideally with a man who'll probably need a beer, so you may want to order it now." Empowered by a strong sense of determination, he strode through the chairs until he had reached the blond whose eyes still made him melt. "Austin."  
  
Austin looked up from his conversation with one of the guys Blaine saw around all the time but had never actually met, eyes widening in surprise. "Blaine. What are you-"  
  
"We need to talk."  
  
"No we don't," Austin replied uncomfortably, his eyes darting to one side nervously.  
  
"Of course we do," Blaine countered, feeling bolder by the moment. He was on the side of right. A person didn't just walk out of a relationship without a reason, and whatever those reasons were they could talk about them and fix them - together. He just needed to know what had made Austin unhappy enough to move out in the first place, and then he'd change whatever it was so they could start again. "Obviously something went wrong, but we can fix it, Austin, I know we can - I love you, and you're so-"  
  
"Hey gorgeous," came a familiar voice, and Blaine blinked as Paul approached from the bar, two drinks in hand. He hadn't seen the man in quite awhile, but time had been kind to him - he certainly didn't look three years older, not with his immaculate physique and light brown hair that held the perfect shaggy shape all day without any fuss. He wasn't sure he could describe Paul as an ex-boyfriend, exactly, but they had certainly spent time together and known each other intimately once upon a time.  
  
Blaine blushed and grinned at the compliment, coming from someone so physically perfect. "Hi Paul - you look...wow. You look amazing, how have you-"  
  
Paul's head turned to him too quickly, a look of confusion turning to surprise as he looked down at Blaine. "Oh hi..." he said. He seemed perplexed for a moment as though he was trying to remember Blaine's name but failing. "How's it going?" He handed a beer to Austin, then his free hand snaked around the man's back and down a little, cupping- Blaine wasn't sure whether to feel sick or furious. He struggled to come up with a response - any response at all - but came up empty.  
  
It was Austin who spoke first: "We don't have anything to talk about, Blaine."  
  
So they were- He tried so hard not to let his face fall, but he could feel it starting to anyway. He didn't understand- he and Austin had only been apart a couple weeks, didn't the man feel even half as much loss as he did? And with another ex...it made the entire thing feel so much more like a betrayal. He tried to force a faint smile to prove he was okay, that there just wasn't anything to talk about, like seeing one's ex-boyfriend groping another ex-boyfriend's ass in a crowded bar was completely normal.  
  
Here it was, he tried to remind himself. He was sure it wasn't the first time he'd witnessed such a thing, just not normally about his own boyfriends. There were plenty of men in this room who had gone through what he was going through.  
  
That didn't help. It just made him angrier.   
  
He managed to utter, "Right. Thanks, um- take care, you two, and...have fun," before turning and slinking back across the bar, past Randy on his perch and out the door onto the street. The night air was refreshing after the crowds in the bar, and he filled his lungs with the cool freshness three times before he started back down the hill toward home. He was sure Randy was chasing after him, trying to find out what happened - maybe he'd seen, but Blaine was sure he still had questions, wanted to know the blow-by-blow...he heard his name ghost over the crowd of indifferent men but didn't turn around. He didn't want to talk about it - right now or ever. He wanted to just-  
  
He didn't know. But talking about it was definitely not going to help. For one thing, he doubted he'd be able to say anything without picturing his ex-boyfriend fucking his-...other ex-boyfriend. He sped up as he turned the corner, trying to outrun the nausea that seemed to claw just at the edges of his stomach.  
  
* * * * *  
  
[Blaine](http://youtu.be/xRIylF76-wc) wasn't sure where the night went. One minute he was perched in his chair, afghan wrapped tightly around himself, a fresh cup of coffee beside him, and the next the sun was starting to peek over the townhouses across the street. The faint pinks and purples cast dusty shadows over the candy-coloured victorians, bathing white trimwork in its early-morning glow. Noe was silent beneath him, the last of the dancing boys and leather-clad men having long since decamped to somewhere with a bed, and Blaine sighed quietly to himself. Why did somewhere with so much potential to be beautiful have to be so rotten and dark so much of the time?   
  
He wanted someone to love him half as hard as he loved them. Or, if not, he wished he could stop feeling so deeply. Hadn't that always been the problem? he chuckled wryly to himself. He jumped in too fast, fell too hard, felt too much, and then things didn't work and he couldn't figure out how to move on.   
  
What if the problem was bigger than that? What if the problem was  _him_? He didn't know anyone who had found a boyfriend to stick with over time, but he knew they had to exist - there were urban myths anyway - and he wanted to believe that kind of love was possible. He needed to believe it could happen. But what if it couldn't happen to  _him_? He didn't know why, what could possibly be causing it, he liked to think he was at least an average boyfriend if not above-average - he loved to treat the people he loved and make them dinner and show how he felt, which he'd always thought was how anyone would want to be treated, but somehow...  
  
He didn't think that was it. Maybe it was self-centered to place the blame on something other than himself, but in a neighbourhood where everyone could have sex with everyone else at any hour of the day or night, it made it harder to keep someone close.   
  
Maybe he just expected too much. Paul had told him that once - he expected too much from people, from places, from books, from songs, like the right one could fix all the problems of the world. He liked to believe they  _could_. A single song had made everything in his life come together, a single place had made him feel safe enough, two men had brought him from a terrified boy into the man he was today. Tiny things could make a world of difference. Paul thought that was naive, though, that it put too much pressure on people and things so that he would always end up disappointed when they couldn't measure up.  
  
Was that was this feeling was? Because instead of wonder at the beautiful colours of his beloved neighbourhood, all he felt was frustrated and boxed-in. The Castro was a place to find a lot of great things - acceptance, sex - but not to find love.   
  
He had no idea where a man went for that. The only men he'd known who had left San Francisco in search of something had been seeking political ideals, not romance, and he wasn't sure he could name more than three other places where gay men would even be available to date if he wanted. From what he could tell, New York was no different than here, just with colder winters and hotter summers.  
  
He jumped as the phone rang, and for a moment he froze as he worried something awful had happened. No one ever called in the mornings. He reached over and picked up the receiver, taking a deep breath before asking, "Hello?"  
  
"Hello, Blaine?"  
  
He recognized the voice on the other end of the line but couldn't place it. "Yes...who is it?" he asked as he picked up the cradle and carried it over to his chair.  
  
"Ted - I'm sorry, I didn't wake you, did I? Last I knew you were teaching so I thought you might be out pretty early."  
  
Even through his sleep-deprived fog and helplessness, Blaine managed a faint smile. "Hey, Ted. How are you? It's been awhile." He hadn't seen the fellow Mendicant in...at least five years, probably more like seven. Still, he wasn't surprised the man had been able to find him; the Mendicants - just like the Warblers before them - maintained an excellent book of records to help create a network of former acapella brethren. The Warblers' list spanned literally centuries and the entire country, though Blaine had only bothered to keep tabs on the members who had been active the same time he had. The Mendicants, on the other hand, were so much newer and smaller that the list took up only a single page and was mostly confined to up and down the California coast. A few had moved east for work, and Fitz was meant to be somewhere down south these days, but it was an oddly comforting list of phone numbers to keep.   
  
"Things are good. Hey, I'd love to catch up, but I know it's early and you've probably gotta get to work, but I have a question to ask you. Actually more like a favour for a friend of mine down here."  
  
"Where is 'here'?" Blaine asked. The last he knew Ted had moved to San Diego to do something with planes, but he had no idea if that was still the case.   
  
"LA," Ted chuckled. "Anyway, a friend of mine is looking to get out of town until school starts back up in August, and he wanted me to see if I knew anyone who knew anyone who had a place in San Francisco they could rent him for three months."  
  
"Really?" Blaine asked, because that seemed like a very strange and oddly specific favour. "Why?"  
  
"He's...I don't know. He's fed up with West Hollywood." For almost a decade now, Blaine had seriously wondered how Ted wasn't gay because the man always seemed to have more homosexual friends than heterosexual ones. Plus he liked female musicians even more than Blaine did. Still, as best he could tell, Ted didn't have any latent feelings he was trying to shove down; for one thing, if he did Blaine was pretty sure Ted would just say so. Unless things had changed since the last time they had spoken, which was always possible, Blaine guessed.   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"He says it's all the same people all the time, all in these incestuous circles of friends, obsessively trying to look better than the next guy fighting like a bunch of teenaged girls who want to date the same boy," Ted replied dismissively.   
  
"Then here's the last place he should come," Blaine replied sullenly.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It's just as bad here. I see the same three dozen people every day, the bars are always the same men, and every time you break up with someone you apparently have to worry about him sleeping with another ex-boyfriend. I bet there's not a man in this city that I don't know at least three people who know him. And they all dress the same, too, and look practically identical - pillars of muscle and boots and tight tshirts that just emphasize how much time they spend at the gym. I'm convinced that's all any of them do - they don't work, just go to the gym, to dinner, to bars, to the baths." He knew he had to sound petty and overly dramatic, but once the words started flowing out he couldn't stop them. He wanted to love it here, he really did. He wanted to be able to just love that there could be a place like The Castro at all, because he remembered how big of a deal it had been to find somewhere like this, but today...  
  
Maybe he was just outgrowing the neighbourhood. Maybe he wanted things that a place like this could never give him because any man he could fall in love with would always have too many other options to be able to settle down contentedly.   
  
But if he didn't fit in here, he wasn't sure where else there might be for him. The world was getting better, more tolerant, but not by enough just yet to strike out for the middle of nowhere.  
  
There was a long pause, then Ted began slowly, "You're gonna think this sounds crazy, but what are you doing this summer?"  
  
Blaine blinked, eyebrows lowering, not sure where exactly this was going. "Not much. There are some beaches in the area. Why?"  
  
"Why don't the two of you just swap for the summer? It sounds like you need a break from things up there, he needs a break from things down here...if nothing else it'll be a whole new city of men you haven't been with yet. Might give you some perspective, maybe you'll figure out somewhere you like better, and at the end of summer you can go back home and decide what you want to do."  
  
It was the sort of crazy idea he would have ordinarily laughed off and graciously declined - though while helping Ted's friend find somewhere to stay. But the thought of seeing Austin and Paul around all summer - or, worse, Austin or Paul with any of his  _other_ exes all summer, because he was under no illusions that the two men were soulmates or would last very long at all - made him queasy. And what exactly was he going to do for the next three months besides heading to the same bars every night where he already knew everyone anyway? Sit and wait for the Greyhound to bring a new young man for him from some remote area of the country? That made him sound pathetic.  
  
"Let me think about it," he replied. The idea was too foolish to just jump into.  
  
...He was pretty sure he was going to say yes. He just needed to think through all the reasons he shouldn't before choosing to ignore them.


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt barely stifled a yawn as he emerged from the station. Three men passed him, trotting down the stairs in crisp business suits and pressed shirts and ties - the old guard ready and eager to start another day because they had concluded the old day at 10:00 the night before. There weren't nearly as many of them now as there had been when Kurt had first arrived in the city; back then the streets and trains had been packed at 8:30 as hoards of clean-shaven, short-haired men in identical suits scurried from their houses in the suburbs to their Madison Avenue offices, determined to be the first one in and the last one out - that showed ambition. Almost no one wore ties these days...at least, almost no one over 40 or men who looked it.   
  
He shouldn't have stayed out so late, he chastised himself for at least the hundredth time. He should have at least gotten home early enough for a few hours' sleep. He couldn't help it, though - Ricky's dress had been the star of the show, and the walks never started on time, and Milan had ended up in a tie which meant separate walk-offs and crowd voting and people challenging the crowd voting so that always took longer. And once he was there, it always felt like the rest of the world - and its insistence on schedules - melted away. It was hard to keep his mind on work and obligations when he was watching his best friend strut down a makeshift runway with hundreds of queens cheering...or while collecting gown requests. It wasn't until he stepped out onto the sidewalk, drenched in pale morning sunlight, that he was snapped back into reality and his mind began to race again with everything he needed to do.  
  
He had exactly enough time to get home, shower, wolf down toast that would hopefully soak up the last of the strong, cheap booze that was ubiquitous at these balls, and rush to work. The key, he had learned, was not to sit down. If he kept moving, momentum would carry him to the office where he could talk himself out of napping because there were too many people who could discover him. But if he sat down, even for a few minutes, he would have a very hard time not letting the fatigue overtake him. It was really difficult to crawl out of his nice cozy apartment to another frustrating day at the office when his bed was  _so close_.   
  
Kurt bounded up the stairs, face flushed from the effort, and fished his key out of his pocket. He was glad he had thought to bring it with him instead of tossing it in his sewing kit as he sometimes did. It was safer in the sewing kit back at Ricky's, less of a chance that someone would take it by mistake or it would be lost forever beneath a sea of rhinestones, but that meant he had to end the night at his friend's instead of going straight home...and when Ricky won, he tended to take his victory lap with whichever of his onlookers made the move first. With very few men out of gowns at these things, the competition for butch men was almost fiercer than the one for the trophies. Which wasn't to say that a few of the drag queens weren't stunningly handsome out of drag or didn't like finding a man to treat right, but they never seemed to do as well at the parties; something about how two queens never seemed to work out.  
  
(Kurt had learned the hard way that while he was one of the few men in the room wearing pants and could have had his pick of the room, it never ended well for him. A drunken attempted-fling with Ricky had taught them both the value of making sure there was a top somewhere in any sexual encounter.)  
  
The key slipped into the lock easily, but as Kurt twisted it counterclockwise he found that the door was already unlocked. He hesitated, trying to figure out a reason why that would be. Rachel was always good about locking up before she went to sleep, and at this time of morning she was never awake and about yet - she didn't have to be at the theatre until mid-afternoon, so there was no reason for her to be. He cautiously pushed it open, staying in the hall and ready to make a getaway if the open door revealed some sort of early-morning criminals. Instead, what he saw through the vestibule was an enormous puff of black hair above a vibrant pink dashiki print shirt.  
  
"Mercedes!" His brain raced, trying to figure out if he'd gotten the date wrong - or if more time had passed than he'd thought-  
  
She turned on the chair to face him; her grin was as wide as ever, radiant - touring agreed with her. "I was wondering when you might get home! I've been here for hours. You stay out later than I do," she teased.  
  
They might not have been as close as they had been as children, in part because they had spent so much of the past year in different parts of the country, and he hadn't realized until precisely that moment just how much he had missed her. "It's good to see you," he replied sincerely. "I wasn't expecting you for-"  
  
"At least a couple months," she confirmed.  
  
"Right. Last time you called you'd said you were going right from the last tour onto the Summer Divas one."  
  
"I was."  
  
"Did something happen?" he asked. She was smiling too much for it to be something  _bad_ , at least he hoped, but Mercedes had long had a way of looking on the bright side of setbacks that meant maybe she was smiling about...he didn't know, being able to be home all summer or seeing each other because it  _had_  been way too long.   
  
"Can't I just come see my oldest friend?" she asked.  
  
"You can, but you wouldn't if you were still on the tour you were supposed to-...you didn't get into a fight with someone else and have to leave, did you?" he asked. That sort of thing wouldn't have surprised him in the least - not because Mercedes was hard to get along with, but because any time you put a dozen self-proclaimed divas on a tour bus things weren't going to end well. And from the stories she had told him, he would have wanted to knock at least a couple of the girls' heads together, so he could imagine how after months together it could explode.  
  
She gave him a deadpan look. "Who do I look like? Rachel?" she asked, and Kurt almost felt bad laughing at that. He shouldn't encourage the two of them sniping at each other...though he doubted it would end any time soon regardless of his participation. And Mercedes did kind of have a point; Rachel had managed to have run-ins and personality conflicts with more than her share of people in the business.   
  
"Then what happened?" he asked. "Because your sales have been steadily climbing so there's no reason they should-"  
  
"Give me a second album deal and a series of shows in LA instead of shoving me on a bus with a dozen other performers each doing one hit a night?"  
  
Kurt stopped mid-sentence, trying to process what she had said. "Really?" he asked, but her grin said it all. "You- oh my god, Mercedes, that's  _fantastic!_  How? I-...you have to tell me what they said."  
  
From the beaming expression, Mercedes was either still in love with the story of her good fortune or, more likely, she had been waiting all night for Kurt's reaction. "Mr. Tanger calls me into his office-"  
  
"The one in the back of his own private bus?" Kurt asked, because while he always listened to her tales from the tour, sometimes it was hard to keep the cast of thousands straight since he'd never met any of them.   
  
"Exactly. Like the bus isn't all his office anyway. It could be worse - some tour managers fly to the destinations while everyone else drives," she pointed out. "Anyway. He calls me into his office and says he just got a call from the label. He didn't look happy at all, so I start worrying they're dropping me or something, they want some new cute thing to take my place." She rolled her eyes and waved her hand dismissively - of course she knew anyone who would do such a thing was clearly in the wrong, but she had learned the hard way that people did that too often anyway. She had spent too much time in the music industry to be optimistic about people and their motives. "But it turns out he's pissed because he has to let me go...because the label is sending me to Los Angeles to work with their best up-and-coming producer on a new album."  
  
"That means they have confidence in it," Kurt pointed out as the thought occurred to him.  
  
"Of course it does - you don't keep up as well when you're out all night," she teased, her joy too ebullient to let her words fall harshly. "And while I'm out there recording, they've set up performances including a series of solo shows at little bars and lounges."  
  
"Just you?" Kurt clarified.  
  
"Just me," she confirmed, beaming.  
  
"...They want to give you your own identity and songs beyond 'divas of disco'," Kurt concluded, and Mercedes nodded, unable to stop smiling. Kurt understood why - his own face and chest ached from sheer joy for her. She had worked so hard for so long - he didn't think he could find a single person who had paid as many dues as she had. From leaving the Melodics - which in retrospect he couldn't believe she'd had the strength of will and vision to do, they'd been so young back then - to Aretha breaking first and bigger, to trying for years to attract record label attention to her performances only to have them pick someone younger or lighter or a man instead...her song on the radio had felt like the biggest thing that could have happened, the culmination of decades of work.   
  
But what was better than hearing her hit song on the radio? Hearing her  _second_  hit song on the radio. Or her third. Or her tenth.  
  
"Mercedes, that's... _amazing_. No one deserves it more than you."  
  
"Thanks, Kurt," she replied quietly, sincerity shining through her beaming grin. "You were the first person I wanted to tell - I knew you'd see why this is so great."  
  
"You haven't told your parents yet?"  
  
"No, I did. They were supposed to come to the tour when it stopped in Columbus, so I had to let them know I wouldn't be on it. They spent most of the call lecturing me about a stable income even after pointing out everyone at church is listening to my song." She rolled her eyes, but Kurt knew that was exactly the way she had expected the call to go. It was what he would have expected too; explaining their careers to people back home was always hard. They were all so practical there, so focused on the day-to-day, and while he could respect wanting to be sure bills were covered instead of just blindly chasing a dream, a part of him wished he could shutter that part of his mind sometimes so he could just enjoy the fantasy of starting his own line like Don had. His own father barely understood what he did now, let alone how a person could leave all that behind and do something more creative without any guarantee of future income. Mercedes' parents had never been able to understand what she was doing with music, why she couldn't have finished college...and while skepticism might have been warranted when they were 20, Kurt liked to think that the point at which a person's song played on heavy rotation was the point at which their dream had been validated.   
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be, they're happy in their way," she replied easily. "But I haven't told you the best part yet."  
  
"There's something better?"  
  
"For you there is," she smirked, and Kurt blinked as he tried to figure out what that might be.  
  
"Are you working with someone amazing?"  
  
"A stylist," she replied, and Kurt was torn. He had a love-hate relationship with so many of the designers who did work in the entertainment business: he loved a lot of their work and hated that none of them knew who he was.   
  
"Bob Mackie?" he asked. The man did do incredible things, and his designs were inventive and tongue-in-cheek, but just like Mercedes sometimes wondered why Aretha had gotten her start instead, just as Rachel both loved and despised Barbra Streisand, Kurt could never understand why the man had had the good fortune to become so well-known and respected while Kurt was stuck as a mid-level designer for a line he didn't particularly love, with a boss who hated everything he tried to design. More than once a gown he had designed for one of his "girls" had shown up in similar and equally-outrageous form on a movie set...different enough that he didn't assume espionage, but similar enough that he could never understand why his own career never jump-started the way he thought it should.  
  
"Better," she replied.  
  
Kurt didn't know that there was anyone better for show garments, but he asked, "Don't tell me they wrangled Halston into it...though that would explain why you're back in New York..."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Kenzo?" She shook her head. "The woman who-"  
  
"You."  
  
The word didn't sink in at first, just sort of hung there in the air between them as Mercedes' smile grew wider, then confused, wondering why Kurt wasn't reacting or saying something, but Kurt didn't know what to say. "What do you mean?" he managed after a moment.  
  
"I mean they're giving me a budget to hire someone to make all my clothes for appearances - especially stage-wear. And to go with me to make sure I wear it right."  
  
"...How could you wear it wrong?" Kurt asked.  
  
"That's just what I said to get them to pay your way and get an extra hotel room."  
  
"A hotel room- you mean in LA?"  
"You're slow when you've been out all night," she accused. "Of course in LA - why would I get you a hotel somewhere else?"  
He'd never thought of being anywhere else; for as long as he could remember, he had wanted to live exactly where he was right now - well, at least in this city. He probably hadn't picked a neighbourhood when he was six. For a few months a decade or so ago he'd dreamed of Paris, then of London when its fashion exploded all over the world in 65, but even those were fleeting desires to be in a place where the action was, where creativity flooded the fashion world, where he could reach his full potential.   
California had never been the dream. How could it be? What could the state possibly have to offer that New York didn't?  
He had obligations here, too, people - what would Ricky do without him? And the others...if he couldn't make their gowns, then someone else would gouge them for poorly-made knockoffs. And his job...  
  
"I...Mercedes, thank you, but I-"  
"Don't even tell me you can't." He didn't know what to say, and Mercedes took advantage of the momentary silence. "There is no one I'd rather have doing all this with me. And if it goes well, just think - this could be your big break. How many years have you sat here scowling at magazines and wondering why you can't be that famous?" He had to admit she might have a point there, but he guessed he probably didn't have to actually admit it aloud - if anyone could read his tilted head and raised eyebrows, it was his oldest friend. "If there's anything I've learned in this business, it's that the difference between people who make it and who don't isn't anything to do with talent. It's about being in the right place at the right time and meeting people who can help you get where you should be."  
  
"About finding the right person who understands how amazing you are and knows how to nurture your talent and create your image..." he mused, sitting slowly in the empty chair. Mercedes had performed at probably every club in New York for a decade before one guy - one average-looking guy at the back table in a rundown shack of a bar - had been a brand new A&R rep who was determined to impress his bosses. If he hadn't been there that night, Kurt didn't doubt that none of this would have happened for her - the radio, the first album, the tour, this new album...she would be just as talented but unknown.  
  
"Exactly," she replied, glad he understood. "And you've got a lot better chance of recognition designing for a hot new artist than you do for an underground ball no one's meant to know about."   
  
Kurt didn't know how to respond to that. On one hand, he knew that of course that was true. On the other, it felt like he was abandoning his friends if he left them for something bigger - like he'd only helped them because he didn't have anything better to do. What if they thought-...  
  
They wouldn't. They probably wouldn't. They knew him well enough to understand...Ricky certainly would...wouldn't he?  
  
His head was spinning, the potent combination of life-changing news, too little sleep, and too many drinks catching up with him, and he leaned back heavily in his chair. "When would this-"  
  
"Week, maybe ten days," Mercedes replied. "I think. It all changes pretty fast. Does that mean you're in?"  
  
"I don't know yet," he replied honestly. He knew the answer had to be in his mind  _somewhere_ , if he could make sense of it, but wasn't sure-  
  
"Tell you what. You get some sleep - you look like something the cat dragged in - and call me tonight. They're putting me up in a swanky hotel while I'm in town..." She pulled a pen out of her bag and jotted down the number. "We'll get dinner and catch up about everything either way. I've missed you - and boy have I got stories from the road." He managed a smile despite his sudden overwhelming exhaustion, and she grinned back. Mercedes stood and started toward the door, then turned back and added, "Don't just say no. This is gonna be big, Kurt, and I want you there."  
  
Head spinning, he had just enough presence of mind to call in to work and mumble to the receptionist that he wouldn't be in until after noon, then practically crawl into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt awoke slowly to the sounds of Rachel trying to out-sing a Barbra Streisand album. He wished he didn't know that, that it was a pasttime he could look upon with confusion, but after so many years together it was a ritual he knew all too well. It didn't surprise him, especially considering how frustrated about the lack of career progress she had been last night.   
  
He groaned quietly and stretched, reluctant to open his eyes to the too-bright room with the headache throbbing at the edges of his skull. He guessed it was more from lack of sleep than from the alcohol, based on the fact that Rachel's overwrought rendition of "My Man" was only mildly irritating rather than piercing.  
  
He complained now, but he had missed it while she was gone. At least, he thought he remembered tha the had missed it.   
  
He padded out of his bedroom, tilting his head slowly from side to side to try to work the stiffness out of his neck. "Morning," he offered. He wasn't sure it was still morning - he had no idea how long he'd slept, but he was pretty sure it couldn't have been that long if he was still so exhausted.   
  
Rachel jumped and screamed in surprise. "Kurt- what are you doing here? Oh my god, you  _scared_  me!" Kurt quirked an eyebrow, too tired to do much more than that, and she placed her hand over her heart as she started breathing more normally. "Why aren't you at work?"  
  
"Late night," he replied.  
  
"Every night is a late night," she pointed out with a disapproving scowl. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at that, as though she had any right to tell him when he should or shouldn't go out when she had spent plenty of years in her twenties out late - at dinners and cast parties and places where she could be closer to meeting people who knew people who had power. He just hadn't been able to find places to do that until after she had declared she was tired of bars and nightclubs.   
  
"It's fine," he replied, perhaps a bit testily. "At least a quarter of the office is out on a given morning because they're all out doing the same thing." It was true, especially among designers, though most of them wouldn't be caught dead where he spent his nights; they were all too busy chasing their latest "muses" at whatever disco they could stumble into - and sucking any attractive man who said he worked for a more prominent label up on one of the balconies.   
  
He had gone a few times, usually because John insisted, and it had been fun - exhausting and frivolous and rawly sexual and all the things a night out was meant to be. But the next night he always found himself back at Ricky's, helping the gang get ready and leading the pack through the streets of Harlem toward a darkened dance hall. He wasn't sure what it was about the competition there that left him feeling invigorated instead of tired and bored - flattered, satiated, but yearning for bragging rights that had more to do with his talent and less to do with his ass or the biceps he had worked hard to acquire. Either way, he had no doubt that his desk wasn't the only one empty this morning.  
  
"When did you get home?"  
  
"About 7, I think. I'm surprised we didn't wake you."  
  
"We? Is Ricky here? Or...someone else?" she asked with a wink, and this time Kurt did roll his eyes.  
  
"No - Mercedes."  
  
"I thought she wasn't due back for awhile."  
  
"She wasn't, but they offered her a second album and are sending her out to LA to work with one of their up-and-coming producers and do some showcases." Even as tired as he was, he couldn't help but grin as he relayed the news.  
  
It was odd; Rachel was a really great actress - Kurt had seen her in enough minor productions to know that. She had always been good. But when the news was personal, it always took her a moment to put on the face she knew she was meant to wear. Her face fell, eyes wide and sad as though asking what she had done wrong to not be afforded such an opportunity, then her mouth tightened which Kurt knew was a sign of contempt - because not only had Rachel not gotten what she thought she deserved, but Mercedes  _had_ , and he knew his friend couldn't help but ask "why did  _she_  get something so great?"  
  
She never meant it to be cruel. Kurt knew that deep down Rachel never  _intended_  to sound like she was rooting for Mercedes to fail. It was just that Rachel considered herself the hardest-working person she knew, and the idea that someone she perceived as less-dedicated triumphed while her own dreams went by the wayside...  
  
He didn't agree - he couldn't. He had seen the ways Mercedes had worked, had grown as a person and an artist, had learned to develop a thicker skin and not take things personally. She had sung in every tiny venue, the equivalent of every thankless chorus part Rachel had taken over the years. She deserved every bit of this - just as much as Rachel deserved a leading, Tony-worthy role. Mercedes had just gotten hers first, that was all.  
  
But he didn't dare  _say_  that.  
  
After a few awkward seconds, her grin stretched too wide on her face, eyes too artificially-lit, and she replied in a high voice, "How great for her. That's fantastic."  
  
Kurt hesitated to mention anything else about the deal, but he had to; he needed to be able to talk to someone, someone who had known him for almost as long as New York had been his dream. Someone who was single-mindedly devoted to her own success enough that she could understand the pull between the place he had always wanted to live, his home, and the opportunity of a lifetime. If anyone could help him sort out how the two interplayed - or butted against each other - she would be the one. "She wants me to go with her."  
  
Rachel's expression faltered again before her eyebrows knitted together, like a car jerking out of one gear but pausing before shifting into another. "Why?"  
  
"The label is letting her hire someone for her wardrobe, and she wants me."  
  
"So you'd just...go to LA?"  
  
The idea still sounded so strange, so completely foreign, but he couldn't help but envision himself and his oldest friend riding in a convertible along the coast, sun beaming down on them as they passed movie stars' homes...He'd never been west of Indiana before, and the thought of living out his own Frankie and Annette movie did sound fun. "Yes," he replied.  
  
"For how long?"  
  
"I have no idea. As long as they want to keep her out there, I guess, unless she takes me on her next tour with her. Or I get another job offer out there." He would have access to so many people out there, so many famous women with impeccable style who could make him the newest designer-to-watch. Movie stars were how designers became known to the world - and then the world wanted to buy their clothing for themselves.   
  
"So you were just going to leave me to...do what? You know I can't afford the apartment on my own. I would have to sublet your room, and I know you don't want a stranger poking around in there - and besides, he could be a serial killer for all I know. And then I have to kick him out when you come home."  
  
Kurt's eyebrows lowered. Was she serious? He had a fantastic opportunity and she was talking about serial killers sleeping in his bed? "I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen," he replied slowly, almost testing the waters to see how seriously she was taking herself. Sometimes she just threw out the first thing that popped into her head as a potential argument, no matter how non-viable...but he could tell from her expression that she actually meant that. Kurt sighed and rolled his eyes as he padded to the counter to make himself the strongest black coffee he could. "There are millions of people in this city and only a few of them are serial killers," he replied. "Odds are you'll be fine."  
  
"But what if he-"  
  
"You could always rent to a woman if it worries you that much," he pointed out.   
  
"Never," she replied. "What if she were better than me and overheard me talking about an audition?"  
  
"Okay, you're being a little ridiculous."  
  
"And you're being more than a little inconsiderate," she shot back. "You didn't even think about me. We're best friends and have been roommates practically forever. We came out here together, Kurt - you and me against the city -and you didn't even hesitate before saying you'd go with her."  
  
He turned slowly to face her. Nevermind that he hadn't said yes to Mercedes yet; could she really be saying what he thought she was saying? Did binding their fates together back in high school when they were  _sixteen_  lash them together for life? And, if so- "You didn't exactly think about me before you moved out. Twice."   
  
"I was getting married!"  
  
"To guys you knew it wasn't going to work with - to guys I  _told_  you wouldn't last. You threw it in my face the entire length of the marriage, all six months of it, claiming I wasn't supportive enough, and then you came crawling back and didn't even bother to ask if you could move in again." He hadn't had any real reason not to let her, especially not the way she had seemed so alone and broken - and even if she had been willfully naive about the prospects of her nuptials, it hardly seemed right to gloat about it back then. But to feign outrage over being left alone with the rent payment every month when she had done the same to him more than once without so much as a second thought...  
  
That wasn't what this was about, he realized queasily. She didn't know how to handle anyone's success except her own. She didn't feel betrayed because of the cost of a two-bedroom apartment; she felt betrayed because he might actually get what he had wanted for his entire professional life...and because she hadn't yet.  
  
How dare she? How dare she try to claim his success as disloyalty? How could she stand there and claim to care about him but want to deny him any chance to-  
  
She didn't mean to, he sighed to himself. It was just Rachel.  
  
Maybe getting away would be good for them. Maybe if Rachel didn't have him to lean on in her cesspool of career angst, she would figure out a way out of it herself - or find new friends to help her, the same way he had found Ricky way back when. Or at the very least...maybe absence would make the heart grow fonder again. Because he loved her, he really did, and she meant the world to him, but lately he spent most of his time wanting to just take her by the shoulders and shake her until reality set in.  
  
Rather than keep fighting, he rolled his eyes and walked away.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt couldn't help but feel nervous as he bounded the stairs. Refreshed from his shower and feeling marginally more awake, he needed to...to sort things out. Because every time he thought about moving - about  _actually going_  it sounded too crazy for words. But every time he thought about  _not_  going with Mercedes, he felt... he didn't know how to describe it, but it wasn't good.  
  
He rapped on the door and frowned as he waited with no response. He tried again and finally heard something muffled from within. Had he made a mistake by not calling first? Usually the men didn't show up until later in the day...and while Don and John had a very -  _very_  - open-door policy when it came to people showing up, Kurt wasn't sure he needed to know quite that much about his friends. Visuals were more than enough, he certainly didn't need to add sounds to the mix.  
  
Maybe he should go. He should get to work soon anyway, and then he could try later-  
  
After a long moment the door finally opened and Don, wearing only boxer shorts and a bedragled expression, stood on the other side. He blinked twice, then smiled - sleepy but genuine. "Hey Kurt. C'mon in."  
  
"Am I interrupting-"  
  
"God no," he replied with a wave of his hand. "After you left last night I was putting away the extra fabric and found this trim - it caught the light in a new way and I was just...inspired. Finally, right? At 1 in the morning. I got to sleep...probably about half an hour ago."  
  
"I'm sorry, I can come back."  
  
"Don't be silly," Don chided, ushering him in. "I need a second set of eyes to tell me if it looks right or if I'm just sleep-deprived." He shut the door behind them and led the way into the living room where a striking [sunny orange dress](http://www.flickr.com/photos/waltergueroult/506006799/) enveloped the dress form that had been empty just twelve hours before. The chiffon cascaded from just above the waist to pool on the floor, unhemmed and unfinished but bordered by gold rope braid that elevated the dress from something casual to an easy-to-wear gown. The same-fabric belt drew in the area just above the waist and gave definition to what could easily have been a muumuu, and the sleeves... Kurt stepped over to finger the fabric gently, admiring the way it hung just so - flowy but with a purpose and shape, weighted just enough by more of the rope trim along the hems. The entire garment looked effortless - not just to wear, but to make, as though Don had just draped a length of cloth for the bottom half and two pieces above, but he knew all too well that it couldn't be further from the truth. It took a lot of work and a gentle, expert hand to make something look so simplistically perfect.  
  
"The sleeves were impossible to match," Don admitted with a sleepy, sheepish grin. "The first one draped just right, but the second..."  
  
"Isn't it always the way?" Kurt replied as he leaned in to inspect the stitching on the skirt. "Wow."  
  
"Does it not look as ugly as I expected?" Don asked, moving in to see where Kurt was looking. "I couldn't even see straight by then, but I knew if I left it pinned it would never sit right in the morning."  
  
"Looks perfectly fine to me."  
  
"And you know what you're talking about, so thank you," Don joked. He leaned against the back of the couch to admire his work. "Now if only anyone would ever see it..." he mused, his proud smile turning wry and sad. "One day," he added, but in a tone that made clear he wasn't sure if he believed it anymore.  
  
Kurt sat in the chair by the sewing machine feeling a little queasy and not just from the too-strong coffee he'd loaded down with cream and sugar before leaving the apartment. Don was at least as good a designer as he was, probably better. If anyone deserved this opportunity...he knew Mercedes wouldn't go for it, she had her heart set on him, but maybe...he could help.  
  
"What if I had a way people would?" he asked.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Mercedes came to see me this morning."  
  
"Yeah? How's she doing - tell her that song is in  _every_  club over here right now. I don't think there's a gay man in New York who hasn't gotten his dick sucked with her singing in the background."  
  
Kurt barely held back a laugh. "Oh, she'd love to hear that," he deadpanned. "She wants me to do her wardrobe - they're flying her out to LA, it's a big deal, but I wasn't sure-"  
  
Don turned to stare at him, eyes wide. "You weren't  _sure_?" he repeated. "If they're flying her out...they've gotta be paying something or she wouldn't ask, right?"  
  
Kurt nodded. "I don't know how much, but yes."  
  
"Then why the hell would you not jump at the chance? Even if it doesn't pay what you make now, if you have a place to stay out there - enough to make ends meet - the exposure alone is more than worth it. What do you have here that can't wait? I mean...I couldn't drop everything and move without talking to John first. But you're young, you're unattached, you don't even like the job you have now. What's holding you back?"  
  
Kurt didn't know, certainly not well enough to put it into words. Because when Don put it like that, it did seem ridiculous to hesitate. "I don't know," he admitted. "LA was never my dream. New York was."  
  
"Dreams change," Don pointed out gently. "Things make a dream impossible or impractical, or divert them, or relocate them...that doesn't have anything to do with whether or not to follow an amazing opportunity."  
  
"But I finally like what I have." He couldn't remember a time he'd been so content in his life - with Don and John, and Ricky and the girls, and a home and a job that was...well, not what he wanted, but not bad...with places he could go and men he could flirt with..."Everything here is what I dreamed of when I was little."  
  
"So you go out there for a few months and come back to pick up where you left off...but with much better contacts in a whole different side of the industry," Don pointed out. "What's there to lose?"  
  
Kurt tilted his head slightly, not sure he could come up with an answer to that. Technically nothing. Still, if Rachel was this mad at him and they weren't nearly as close as they had been...  
  
Don seemed to understand the expression on his face, because he leaned in and put his hand over Kurt's. "If I asked, John would tell me to go," he stated quietly, meeting his gaze. "Because he'd understand how amazing an opportunity this is, and he wants me to be happy."  
  
"They'll get robbed by any other gown-maker," he pointed out, but it felt like a hollow justification the more often he said it.  
  
"They'll be fine," Don replied sincerely. "Opportunities this good don't come along often, Kurt. You've gotta seize any chance like this you get. If anyone's gonna understand that, it's him."  
  
He knew that - he did. He knew that if anyone understood doing what a person had to do, it was going to be the boy who had been on the streets for too many years, who saw dating-for-hire as a great way to pay for extra sequins and new wigs and better makeup, but-  
  
He remembered how lonely he had been before Ricky had entered his life, how lonely Ricky had been back then even if he would never have uttered the words. What if Ricky didn't see it as an opportunity but as yet another person throwing him out of their life?   
  
Maybe if he broke it to him face-to-face.  
  
"Do you mind if I call-"  
  
"Go ahead," Don replied, nodding toward the kitchen, and Kurt drew in a deep breath before he lifted the receiver and dialed.  
  
Milan had joked once that Ricky started out the day the most masculine he would ever be and it was all downhill from there, and from the rough-sounding grumble that greeted him on the other end of the line, Kurt had to agree. "Hello to you too." Another grumble, but this one ended in "Vonny," so Kurt knew the young man was coming around. "We need to make plans, I've gotta talk to you about something."  
  
"The green...?" Ricky mumbled, and Kurt almost laughed. So much for masculine, if he assumed any conversation must be about a gown they had started working on but never finished about 4 separate times.  
  
"No. Something more...y'know what? Let's say lunch in an hour down at-"  
  
"...What's wrong?" And with that, Ricky was awake.  
  
"Nothing's wrong."  
  
"Mmhmm." Even across town, Kurt could practically see his quirked eyebrow of disbelief.  
  
"We can talk about it at lunch."  
  
"Tell me now."  
  
Kurt hesitated, fidgeting with the phone cord and winding it around his fingertips, but he couldn't keep things from Ricky - he'd never been able to. So he explained everything: the surprise visit from Mercedes, Rachel's reaction, Don thinking it was professionally a great move...when he finished, he fell silent and waited.  
  
"I always knew I'd have a gownmaker to the  _stars_." He pronounced it without the r, emulating an old and overly-dramatic actress.  
  
"Wait - what?"  
  
"Vonny, this is  _amazing_ ," he stated, and Kurt could hear the beaming grin in his voice - every bit as wide as his own smile when talking about Mercedes' new album.   
  
"Yeah?" he asked, heart fluttering with relief.  
  
"Of course it is. And it means I have a place to stay when I visit Hollywood," he stated.  
  
"I thought you were done stalking celebrities," Kurt pointed out, mostly teasing, and Ricky laughed.  
  
"One man's stalking is another man's devoted following," he replied matter-of-factly.   
  
"Into bathrooms."  
  
"Only once," Ricky protested. "That was different - it was Chita Rivera."  
  
"Mmhmm," Kurt replied dryly, but he couldn't stop grinning. He was really going to do this. "So you're really okay with me up and leaving? I don't know how long I'd be gone..."  
  
"You know my measurements - you can send me anything from there," he joked, which Kurt knew was an enthusiastic 'yes' coming from the man he knew so well.   
  
"I promise to remember you even when I'm designing for the Oscars," Kurt replied. He had learned over the years exactly where the line for emotional expression laid with Ricky; there was a big difference between over-the-top displays of fake adoration and teasing that really meant 'I love you.'   
  
"Of course you will," Ricky replied dismissively. "You wouldn't dare forget. And none of them look half as good as I do in a sequinned turban."  
  
"That's true," Kurt laughed.   
  
By the time he hung up the phone, he felt much better. Ricky would be fine - so would the rest of them. There was nothing wrong with going in search of success somewhere new - and Rachel only thought there was because she was jealous of anyone's success that wasn't her own. Besides, the worst that could happen is that he would spend three months in the summer sun with a friend he hadn't spent nearly enough time with in recent years...then he could come back home and pick everything back up where he'd left it.  
  
Except one thing he had no intention of picking up again.  
  
"Mind if I make one more call?" he asked, and Don chuckled as he lifted the receiver out of Kurt's hand.  
  
"Nope. Trust me - telling the head designer where to shove his job is  _much_  more satisfying in person." 


	4. Chapter 4

As the Greyhound bus pulled into the depot, Blaine's nose was practically plastered to the window as he tried to figure out this city - his new home. Even after a decade and a half in California, he realized he had barely explored his adopted state, and while hearing "Los Angeles" evoked a myriad of images of old Hollywood, of Clark Gable eating dinner at Musso & Frank's, of Greta Garbo and her disdainfully-arched eyebrow, of starlets at premiers and the Oscars, he wasn't sure he had any concept of the place from the  _recent_  past. He knew what San Francisco felt like, what it smelled like, what it stood for - and even though he had grown weary of it, at least he knew. LA was nothing but a series of questions - and potential. It was the land where dreams came true, where a young woman eating at a department store dining counter could become the new "it" girl. Surely, Blaine thought to himself as he stared at the bottom floors of buildings lining the traffic-packed streets, he could find what he was looking for here.   
  
It looked nothing like San Francisco - dirtier than even the Tenderloin, with tall buildings jutting up out of clusters of low-level shacks that looked like they had seen better days. Blaine sat back, using his shirt sleeve to wipe away the fog his breath had left on the window, trying to get a better sense of whether the dirt he thought he saw was real or just a product of too much car exhaust. It didn't look as bad as photos he had seen of New York lately, but it wasn't the glittering city of promise he'd hoped for, either.   
  
San Francisco didn't shine anymore either, he reminded himself. There were newer, cleaner areas and ones that looked like they hadn't been washed since the Eisenhower administration. Just because the Castro was for the most part well-kept didn't mean the entire city was...nor did he have any reason to expect that the Greyhound station was representative of all of LA. Three men had separately tried to approach him about either buying or selling something at the depot as he left northern California; he liked to think that wasn't typical of anything but lousy bus depot placement.   
  
The bus shuddered to a stop, and Blaine reached to retrieve his bags. With his suitcase clutched in one hand and his duffle bag mostly-full of 8-tracks slung over his other, he stepped off the bus and drew in a deep breath, anxious to explore his new home. He didn't think he had ever been so hot in his life. How did anyone survive here more than five minutes - two seconds in and he feared he would melt into the pavement. It shouldn't be  _this_  much hotter than San Francisco, should it? It had been a cool 50 when he boarded the bus at 4 and now at- he checked his watch- half past 2 in the afternoon, he doubted it would be warmer than 70 at home. He had no idea what the temperature was where he stood, but he guaranteed it was at least 90 - probably higher. It had to be higher if he felt this drenched with sweat and he was himself 98.6, right?   
  
He made his way through the throng of passengers waiting to pick up larger bags and through the doors into the bus depot. Immediately through the doors a sharp puff of air conditioning chilled him; he shivered but was grateful for it. Setting down his bags on an empty chair, he rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows and reached into his pocket to tug out the slip of paper that held his new address...not that he had any idea how to reach it. He wasn't entirely sure which direction West Hollywood was from here - instinct said west, but that might not be right because he had no idea where  _regular_  Hollywood was from here. He spotted a rack of pamphlets beside the soda machine and made a beeline, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw a series of local bus maps. After more than a decade of riding the assortment of streetcars that San Francisco had to offer, he liked to think he was pretty proficient at figuring out how to get where he needed to go as long as he had a map and correct fare.   
  
In reality, by the time he finally disembarked at his final stop, it was after 5 and the streets were more jammed than ever with cars as everyone tried to get home for the night. And even then, he still had to trudge four blocks to the address on his slip of paper. At least it was flat, he tried to convince himself, or at least almost level - just a slight upward slope toward his new home instead of the mountain he would be climbing in San Francisco.   
  
Peering at the numbers of old-looking buildings, he stopped in front of a stucco-faced block of apartments. The wrought-iron gate that stretched across the front walk had been painted light blue at one point, probably to give a soothing or tropical feel, but by now was mostly rust with flecks of sky-coloured latex between the red bumps. He could see where the facade had been patched, each fix denoted by a different shade and texture of plaster, so that in parts he could barely tell which layer was the original building surface. The '2' of the address was missing, but the space where it had once been was much lighter than the surrounding area, cleaner than the rest of the stucco and a bit flatter, so he could read it almost as clearly as the brass numbers still tacked in place.   
  
So this was his new home.   
  
The old Victorian on Noe, even with its endless stairs and creaking floors, seemed like a palace by comparison even though it was considerably smaller; at least that had been well cared-for instead of this cast-off. He hadn't been trying to get away from his physical apartment, he reminded himself; he had never tired of that. It was about the city, which he still hadn't actually explored. And at least now it was cooler than it had been when he had arrived, the early evening bringing the temperature down to a manageable level.   
  
Tentatively, almost afraid of what he might find beyond it, he lifted the u-shaped piece of iron holding the gate closed and entered the complex. The walkway led between two buildings - or was it two ends of the same building? - and into a small courtyard that was almost filled by a pool. At least, Blaine assumed it was a pool; it was hard to tell from the amount of green whether it was intended as a garden of some kind or simply poorly maintained. But for the walkway through which he had come, the pool was completely surrounded by two stories of apartments, each door opening out toward the courtyard. The columns helping support the second story as well as the railings to keep residents from falling off the catwalks were painted the same chipped sky blue, though not quite as rusty as the gate out front. At each of the four corners, Blaine could see the foot of a staircase tucked into a stucco archway to lead to the upstairs apartments; judging from his apartment number (214), he guessed that was where he was heading. Hoisting his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, he found the nearest staircase and trudged up and emerged on the catwalk, which to his relief felt much sturdier than it looked.   
  
Apartment 214 was halfway down the left-hand side of the pool, only a hundred feet or so from the stairs, and he had been told the door would be open for him. He had left his own key under the front mat, along with a spare key with his downstairs neighbour just in case, so the idea that even in this...rough of a complex the previous tenant felt safe leaving his door unlocked did help Blaine's state of mind somewhat. He reached out and turned the knob, only to feel it stop after a quarter turn, clearly locked. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He set down his bags and reached down to lift the doormat, starting first at the corners where it would be easiest to slip a key and then picking up the entire thing. Nothing but dirt greeted him. He reached up, then raised up on his toes, trying to feel above the lintel in case that would be a safer place; again, he came up empty.   
  
He sat down heavily on the cement walkway, frustrated and exhausted. What kind of fool's errand was this? Why had he trusted the word of a friend of a friend about something as important as the place he would be  _living_  for three months? What if this wasn't even a real address? For all he knew, some guy was living the high life in the Castro right now, in  _his apartment_ , breaking his stereo and having sex in his bed, and he was standing here in some dilapidated apartment complex with an algae-infested pool in a city where he couldn't find  _anything_ , let alone a pay phone. And even if he could find a phone, who in the world could he call? Ted might let him crash there, if he had any way of getting there, but even then he'd committed to stay the whole summer, and he doubted his old friend would have quite that much hospitality in him. Assuming he could even reach the man.   
  
Blaine sighed, trying to calm himself down. Maybe the key was just somewhere else. Maybe the man had realized before he left that leaving his door unlocked in this complex wasn't the best idea and had put the key somewhere else that might be safer, but hadn't been able to reach him because he was already on the bus. All he had to do was figure out where that safer place might be. Maybe a mailbox - it was a place he would think to leave something at home, even though his mailbox didn't have a lock. He just had to hope this one didn't, either, or he would be out of luck until or unless he also found the mailbox key.   
  
He peered down through the bars, looking for where the boxes might be, when another sign caught his eye:  _Landlord_. Perfect. Blaine pulled himself to his feet and, after considering a moment, grabbed his bags. The last thing he needed was to return in a few minutes with a key and find his entire music collection - and all his clothes - had been stolen. Given the way the trip had been going, that seemed surprisingly likely. He bounded down the steps again and across the entrance side of the courtyard, then rapped lightly on the marked door.  
  
As he shifted on the woven mat that had at one point said "Welcome" but now had only a W and the faint curve of an l, it occurred to Blaine that he really hoped the landlord would be in. At home his landlord worked later hours than he did, some kind of office job downtown, but with the many units here he hoped managing this complex might be his full-time job...or at least that he might home early-ish. At first Blaine heard nothing - no scuffle, no call, no footsteps moving toward the door, and he knocked again, stomach sinking as he tried to figure out where he could go if this didn't work. Maybe one of his new neighbours would let him in to call Ted...he'd have to fish the number out of wherever it had ended up in his bag, though, and he wasn't looking forward to doing that on someone's front mat-  
  
The door swung inward and a tall man with windswept blond hair stood before him. Everything about him screamed "classic beauty but not quite," from the way his muscles looked almost pasted onto his frame instead of grown there naturally, to the fullness of his lips beneath his long, perfectly-straight chiseled nose, to his prominent cheekbones that were set just barely too high and made his lower jaw look too long...every part of the picture was just barely wrong but still undeniably nice to look at. "Yeah?" he asked, seeming distracted and stifling a yawn.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Blaine offered sincerely, though he wasn't sure who would be asleep this time of evening.   
  
The man blinked twice, gaze coming into focus as he looked Blaine up and down. Blaine shifted, a mix of flattered and self-conscious at the intensity of the scrutiny. "no problem," the man replied, a faint smirk of approval crossing his face. "They didn't tell me anyone new was moving in today - and I would remember seeing you around before."  
  
Blaine blushed but grinned - after how he'd decided to leave, he reveled in being noticed...and not just noticed, but  _desired_...by the first gay man he met in the entire city. He had a much better feeling about Los Angeles all of a sudden. "I'm Blaine, I'm staying in Ralph's apartment for the summer?"  
  
"Oh- right. He went to...San Francisco?"  
  
"Right," Blaine confirmed and the man nodded. "I'm sorry to bother you, but he was supposed to leave a key and it doesn't seem to be anywhere. Do you have a copy?"  
  
"Yeah, he dropped it off last night before he left. Probably figured it would be safer that way. Come in, I'll go get it for you." The man stepped back and turned to look for it, leaving the door open for Blaine to follow. The apartment looked a little older than he expected - or more dated, anyway; his home back north dated to before the Earthquake and Great Fire while this just looked like 1955 had come back to have its revenge with more shag carpeting. Still, it was clean, which Blaine hoped boded well for his own temporary dwelling.  
  
"Have you lived here long?" Blaine asked, glancing around at the threadbare, mismatched chintz that covered two chairs and a loveseat.  
  
"Not to long - a couple years maybe. I was over in Silverlake before that, but when my roommate and I broke up he got to keep the place. But this one's free as long as I'm super, so can't beat that, right?" he kept talking as he passed through the living room, voice echoing off the curved threshold. After a moment of rustling, bhe returned, key in hand. "Here you go. He didn't give me his mailbox key - if that's not in the apartment somewhere, he probably forgot and took it with him." Blaine reached out to take the key and froze as their hands met and the man's gaze began to bore into him again. he swallowed hard and looked up, eyes meeting. ""Just...let me know," he said finally, voice much lower than it had been. "We'll figure something out."  
  
Blaine wasn't sure what they would figure out - he thought they'd said a minute ago but he couldn't remember now...but he looked forward to whatever it might be. "Okay," he replied quietly, lips curving into a tiny smile.  
  
The landlord - super, he guessed - pressed the key into his hand and offered a sly, knowing grin. "You should go. Disco nap's a-wasting."  
  
"Where do people go around here?" Blaine asked - and by 'people' he meant the man whose intense stare kept making him shiver even though the apartment was not lacking for heat.  
  
"A bunch of places. Ah-men's popular. Gay'm has the best go-go boys. Key Club if you're looking for that. Membership's kinda steep but worth it if you go a few times a week."  
  
"Which one do you like?" Blaine ventured, hoping an invitation woudl follow.  
  
"Goliath's," he replied without hesitation. "It's on Melrose. Maybe I'll see you there."  
  
Blaine grinned. "Definitely," he replied. He headed for the door, holding up the key as an 'I should get back' gesture and an expression of thanks, then retreated to his new-found home. He slipped the key easily into the deadbolt, twisted, and was relieved to hear the sound of metal clunking into place. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder again and pushed the door open, breathing a sigh of relief as he entered. The apartment wasn't half bad - downright nice compared to the state of the complex it was in. The kitchen off to the right seemed new enough, nice formica for the countertops, and definitely clean and well-kept. Small but the kind of place he wouldn't mind cooking in. Straight ahead was the living room, and Blaine was surprised to see a large motif of painted stripes - backwards C's with a long tail leading into the next one, each comprised of three stripes: red, gold, and dark brown, separated by thin white bands. The sofas looked more like tufted pillows or limp mattresses, covered in smooth cream canvas and flanked by a table with a built-in turntable. Blaine beamed at that - whoever this man was, the owner of the apartment, this mysterious 'Ralph' he had never met and probably would never lay eyes on, Blaine had to like anyone who prioritized being able to change the record without getting off the couch. along the widest wall, perpendicular to the door, stood an immense wooden entertainment centered with a television, 8-track player, and large (and very nice, Blaine noted) speakers. The album collection rivaled his own, he observed with a grin, and from the way some of the albums leaned, a selection of albums had made the trip up to San Francisco.  
  
So far his counterpart seemed like a man after his own heart. Blaine just hoped that wouldn't mean they came to the same conclusions about both cities. He wasn't sure where he might end up if that happened. Chicago, maybe. Not New York - while it was a great place to be gay these days, he heard, they were always about two hours away from not being able to pay their public school teachers. He was pretty sure even in New York a gay man couldn't teach at parochial school. Even in California that wouldn't fly. He was glad for the good new for East Coast homosexuals and all, but it didn't help him anyway.  
  
...It helped  _someone_ , he hoped, anyway. The notion of that much freedom and acceptance in the place where there had once been so much police harassment helped soothe his decades of worry in the same the speeches Jimmy Carter gave on the campaign trail promising amnesty for everyone who had fled to Canada during the war brought him a sense of peace, of relief on behalf of another long-gone lover. The knowledge that men he'd loved could be safe now was comforting on the rare occasion he wandered too far back down memory lane. They should be happy.  
  
And so should he. He just really hoped Los Angeles could bring him that.  
  
But so far, he reminded himself as he set his key on the angled-legged laminate table, there were good signs for that. His landlord was  _really_  attractive and interested in him. There were plenty of places to go out and meet people, he had a list of former-Mendicants and Warblers to call up if he ever felt lonely and in need of more friends...and he could learn to live with the heat. He could grow to like it here.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Blaine wasn't sure what he expected Goliath to look like, but the windowless cinderblock building with a plaster arch and columns stuck around the door was not it. It was practically part of a strip mall and the furthest cry from Twin Peaks Blaine could imagine. Still, he  _had_  come to LA looking for a change, so he drew in a deep breath and pushed open the door; it was heavy, like the old bar doors back in pre-liberation days, and he found the interior to be just as poorly lit as he remembered those places being, but the similarities ended there. In the old Polk Gulch days, Blaine was sure there had never been a bar with fully naked men standing on pedestals, flexing for all to see like an old fitness magazine come to life.  
  
It wasn't what Blaine had come there expecting, but now that he was here...well, he did have eyes. And who was he to dismiss such sculpted forms?  
  
He sidled up to the bar and pulled out a quarter for a beer - they were 5 cents cheaper here than at home. As he took the bottle, he reluctantly tore his gaze from the, well,  _goliaths_  to scan the room of unfamiliar men in search of the one he knew.  
  
The men looked different here; maybe it was just a different type of bar than the community watering hole he was used to, but almost no one here wore the tight jeans and western shirts he was used to up north. Instead he saw a lot of jean and athletic shorts rising high over slim thighs and muscular calves. Maybe it was a factor of the weather, though it had cooled down considerably. On the other hand, maybe it was the result of a higher rate of visible muscles per tanned young men that led to a lot fewer clothes.  
  
They were taller here. Fitter. Blonder. And even more image-obsessed, he concluded as he watched even his fellow patrons preen and pose. It made sense, Blaine supposed, with Hollywood and all. Still, he couldn't remember ever feeling so short or dark in a bar before.  
  
Still, he was here, and he hadn't moved just to stay in every night. Besides, his landlord would be here, and the man had been plenty interested even in broad daylight. There was no point in leaving yet.  
  
Even if he felt like the only guy in the bar who wasn't being cruised.  
  
It was best to keep moving, he knew; otherwise he might park himself at the bartop with his beer and start veering toward old habits, trying to force levity in ways that spiraled much too quickly. Instead he grasped the bottle and began to weave his way around the room, hoping to find someone who found him worthy of their time. If there was one thing he head learned in a decade at gay bars, it was that everyone was  _somebody's_  type. He just had to find that somebody among a sea of bronzed gods tonight.  
  
By his third lap around the narrow bar, he was beginning to think his task was Herculean rather than merely improbable. None of the men even so much as let him catch their eye, let alone reciprocated - Blaine sighed and leaned against the wall, gazing up at the bare ass of the nearest pedestal-poser. After the day he'd had, he guessed the last he could do was finish his beer and enjoy the view for a few minutes before going back to his temporary home and crawling into bed. Maybe the landlord had just stayed in tonight, or hadn't woken up from his nap, and maybe he could-  
  
Blaine spied a familiar profile and scrambled to his feet, weaving and nudging his way through the crowd until he reached the only gay man he knew in the whole city. His landlord- jeez, Blaine chided himself, he still didn't know the guy's name. thinking of him as "his landlord" every time felt so formal and almost a little scuzzy, like picturing a dirty old man who asked for  _payment_  for fixing the pipes...But this wasn't really the time or place for formal introductions, either. The man could be a Jason, after the leader of the Argonauts, with a face (and a body, by the looks of it) that belonged on a piece of Greek painted pottery. That worked. Maybe-Jason leaned against a table, holding what looked like maybe scotch, and talking to a brunette in a tight ringer tshirt with the logos for the Houston Astros stretched across his chest. Blaine watched queasily as maybe-Jason leaned in, grinning, and brushed the edge of the Astros fan's shirt cuff where it cupped his bicep. The look maybe-Jason wore was familiar: intense,  _interested_ -  
  
He had misread it all, hadn't he? Blaine realized. Maybe-Jason wasn't actually interested in  _him_ , he was interested in any halfway-attractive, remotely-homosexual man he saw - just like half the men in San Francisco and practically every guy he'd ever slept with (including more than a few recent ex-boyfriends). The men here were exactly the same as the ones he'd been trying to get away from. The cruising, the obsession with beauty, none of it was new or unique-  
  
...What a  _fool_  he'd been.  
  
Blaine set his beer on the nearest table and hurried toward the exit, pushing his way through the crush of men staring at the nearest ass. They barely noticed. He shoved open the heavy door and half-stumbled into the parking lot. How stupid he was. How short-sighed. How-...how utterly ridiculous. Thinking men would change because they...what, exactly? Because they lived closer to a swimmable beach? Because they had a higher chance of meeting the goddesses of the silver screen while standing in line for a soda? They were still men - gay men, post-liberation gay men who seemed to think the best way to preserve their new-found rights was to do everything with a dick that they could find.  
  
He could understand  _why_  - he liked sex. really he did. But he'd had more meaningless romps than anyone had a right to, and those had all been so...so  _wrong_. Drunken fumbling with some girl to try to convince himself he was okay, that he could be happy and numb at the same time. He couldn't; he knew that now. But he also knew he didn't need ot try. he had spent the last ten years fighting tooth and nail for the ability - not just that, but the  _right_  - to have sex that could mean something, only to find out no one wanted boyfriends anymore, just pieces of ass. Men whose names they didn't have to be bothered to learn. Steamy nights they would barely remember in the morning.  
  
All free love had done was make sex cheap, fast, and easy. Too convenient. Too quickly brushed aside. Of course it was the same here - why shouldn't it be? He just didn't have a slate of exes here yet. If he stayed in LA, he would have them soon enough. Just like if he went to New York or Chicago. Just like anywhere else he could go in search of someone to have sex with who would still be there in the morning.  
  
Dejected, he slunk across the parking lot and reached out to hail a cab. he hoped the bed was as comfortable as the couch; after the day he'd had, he wanted to sleep fro a year.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The last thing Blaine wanted to do on his first morning in LA was get up. The mattress was surprisingly soft, the sort of thing a person could sink it, and the early morning temperature was comfortable - downright pleasant, even. Besides, still stinging from the conclusion he had come to the night before, why bother? Blaine knew it was petulant and immature, but he didn't care that much, not when it turned out that his pool of potential dates in this city was equally unlikely to give him what he desired - not just wanted but  _needed_  from a relationship. What was the point of getting up - when he was perfectly comfortable, no less - to go out and meet nothing but guys who wanted a quick orgasm and nothing more?  
  
Which wasn't to say no one would want  _him_  - plenty would. Plenty had. It wasn't personal that way, it wasn't about vanity even though he was still a little hurt that none of the men last night had so much as looked at him twice. But wasn't it worth having self-respect to not have a bar full of men playing the constant "hey, you wanna?" game with nothing but eye contact and the occasional nod or lift of the eyebrow? Wasn't waiting around to have a relationship that would be good for him - or at least mean  _something_ other than mutual horniness - the best thing to do?  
  
Maybe he shouldn't have a boyfriend for awhile. He sighed deeply at the thought; it had only been a few weeks and he already missed the sweet intimacy of sharing his days with another person, of just looking at them and knowing and feeling so  _deeply_...  
  
Maybe that was why he needed to take some time for himself. But time for himself still required getting up and not just wallowing in a stranger's bed all day. Besides, he had a whole new city to explore and lunch plans with Ted. At least for those reasons, if nothing else, he needed to leave the bed.  
  
By the time he arrived outside Philippe the Original at 12:30, Blaine felt like he finally understood the bus map in his pocket - at least a little. And though he knew the camera around his neck marked him as a tourist, two families had thought he looked sure enough of himself that they had asked him for directions - and he had only sent one of them in the wrong direction and had to sprint down the street after them to apologize and help turn them around. Not bad for his second day in town. He would need to buy a few pair of shorts to help with the midday heat, but he could feel himself already starting to get used to it. (His hair was another story.)  
  
Tugging open the glass door, Blaine found himself staring at a throng of people chattering away as they read the large menu board that stretched from one end of the counter to the other. Blaine raised up on tip-toe, attempting to peer over the crowd. How was he ever supposed to find his old friend in this place?  
  
"Blaine!" His head jerked to the right as he heard his name, and Ted waved from his place at a table near the back of the small dining room. Two large sandwiches sat on the table in front of him, and Blaine headed over quickly, offering quick "Excuse me"s to the the patrons he brushed past. Ted's hair was longer and bushier than last time Blaine had seen him, and the matching gingerish mustache was new - or new in the last six years, which Blaine guessed wasn't new at all. But he looked good - comfortable, and not just because he donned a slouchy striped polo shirt and broken-in Levi 501s. Blaine smiled as he approached the table, and Ted grinned as he shook his hand. "I hope you don't mind, I went ahead and ordered. it can be a madhouse here at lunch."  
  
"No - it looks great," Blaine replied as he took a seat.  
  
"They did invent the french dip." Ted removed the plastic top from the styrofoam bowl of fragrant beef gravy. "Or so they say anyway. How was your first night here?"  
  
Blaine picked up his sandwich, dunking it awkwardly, and began to tell the entire story of his first 12 hours in town between bites: the heat, the arduous journey, the locked door, the landlord who turned out to have wandering eyes (and other things, he suspected petulantly, to Ted's amusement). "They're exactly like the guys at home," he concluded, "only more self-absorbed and superficial."  
  
"Of course they were - you were at a bar," Ted replied, and Blaine blinked, not sure he understood. "Looking for someone to date at a bar is like trying to find someone to marry at a key party - it's not what people are there for, so it's not what you'll find. I"d rather ask out a woman in line at the grocery store than at a bar."  
  
Blaine paused, mulling over what his friend had said. He'd never thought of it like that. It didn't help explain  _every_  relationship failure he'd had - not even close - but it did make sense why some guys seemed incapable of being boyfriend material...and why Austin had moved on so quickly and unexpectedly. Bars, as it turned out, might be even worse for him and what he needed than he had thought.  
  
But what did that mean for him? He'd fought hard to get those bars - those sacred places for freedom and socializing, for being among a community. if he took those out of the equation, where else did he have to go? Sure there were gay political organizations now, and he volunteered with them sometimes, but he loved meeting people and just...enjoying company. He tried to think of gay places other than bars and nightclubs back home - where he knew every nook and cranny of the neighbourhood he'd called home for more than 8 years now - and came up empty. Here he had even less of an idea where to begin.  
  
if he accepted that going out would never get him more than a moment's pleasure, did that condemn him to a summer spent alone in the apartment - and then a lifetime of perching above 18th Street and watching a neighbourhood come alive, bustle, then go to sleep again, always apart as Quasimodo in the bell tower? "That's a lot easier to do when you can meet women at the supermarket," he pointed out, trying not to feel bitter or hopeless about the prospect of a bar-less future. There was no point in that, he had learned, but sometimes he just got so  _frustrated_. Things were better than ever, and that thrilled him, and he was proud to be able to claim any small part in helping bring about the freedom they had now. But sometimes it still felt like he was always waiting to be allowed to grow up and start the next stage in his life. Waiting for the people around him to catch up. He wasn't a kid anymore, he should have been married with children of his own by now, and while he was thankful every single day that he hadn't gotten swept down that path...sometimes living alone and trying to find someone to date made him feel like a perpetual college student, always preening and trying to find someone to take out to the big game on Friday. But was the only other option isolation from everyone who might understand him? He shuddered at the thought.  
  
"We just need to get you out and meeting people," Ted replied. "But somewhere you might actually  _talk_  to people before you kiss - or find out their name before you find out their jock size."  
  
While Blaine was still sure that he and Maybe-Jason could have had a great future together were it not for those other men, he supposed Ted might be on to something. "Do you know any place like that?" he asked.  
  
"As a matter of fact..." he stood and pulled a quarter-folded flier out of his back pocket. "Since you mentioned it. A buddy of mine runs a club - all different kinds of live music, but with a neat atmosphere. It's kinda loungey, gets a mix of people - including plenty of guys to talk to," he added with a teasing tone as though he was sure that would be Blaine's next question. "And his sister married an A and R guy, so he has an in at a bunch of labels now. He's doing a bunch of...what did he call them? Showcases? Something like that. Got a few of his contacts to send their up-and-comers his way, plus some established guys who just really like playing small venues. It should be some good shows - and I'm not just saying that because I redid his whole sound system and know it's top of the line," he added with a smirk as he unfolded the paper and handed it to Blaine.  
  
"You did?"  
  
"Yeah. That's mostly what I do now. A lot of upgrading, some rewires, mostly for all the bars on Sunset that used to be crap piles and now are...well, crap piles with awesome audio."  
  
"What happened to airplanes?"  
  
"Demilitarization - peace with honor and fewer jobs," he replied with a shrug and a wave of his hand, nonplussed. "This is better. I get into any show I want for free. Plus I set my own hours - no more oh-seven-hundred crap."  
  
"Sounds nice," he replied, though he couldn't imagine working in a job where that wasn't the start of his work day. He looked over the folder, tilting his head slightly at the first name that popped out at him. "Toto?" he asked. "As in 'I'll get you my pretty'...?"  
  
"I have no idea," Ted replied. "It's a couple guys who've done studio work for Steely Dan and Seals and Croft who just got a deal. But Harry Chapin's meant to be fantastic live."  
  
"I heard he recruited Mr. Tanners out of the audience once," Blaine confirmed, and though his voice was unsuited for the task of a song about a classic baritone, he had to see any performance he could by an artist who recognized and relished the power a song could have over a crowd. "...Mercedes Jones?"  
  
"Yeah - you know, she has that song out right now..." Ted hummed a couple bars of the chorus, but Blaine's mind was already a million miles - and a couple decades - away. He had recognized her name the first time the DJ had said it, but it had taken a few days to place it; it hadn't been until the poster went up in the teachers' lounge asking for prom chaperons that the name had clicked and he had remembered the perfectly nice girl in the bright pink dress he had spent three hours trying to like and half-ignoring in favour of Kurt. He had known she loved music, and Kurt had looked forward to them being in the same glee club, but her success - and the way that success had thrust her name back into his head so many years later - had taken him by surprise.  
  
"I know. I know  _her_ ," Blaine replied distantly. He felt like there should be more...not  _closeness_  exactly, but something tying them together he could talk about. He wasn't sure why. They had met a few times, she had grown up with someone he had loved a lifetime ago. That was all.  
  
...he bet Kurt was thrilled for her success...if they were still close. A lot could happen in- god, had it really been 16 years? (He didn't even want to think about the fact that the kids he had just finished teaching had been barely born then - some of them weren't even glimmers in their mothers' eyes yet when he had watched Kurt across the dance floor, spinning Rachel and trying to spite him.)  
  
"Really?" When Blaine just nodded, Ted pressed, "How?"  
  
There was too much history to share for a single answer, so he settled for the shortest - and easiest - version of things. "She was my date to the senior prom."  
  
Ted chuckled, and Blaine wasn't sure why. His taking a girl to prom couldn't be  _that_  funny. Sure, he lived openly now, but Ted was the same age he was; surely he remembered what things were like back then. Even now his students took girls - usually their best friend, like Kurt and Rachel had. Certainly when they were teenagers he couldn't have- "That couldn't have gone over well in Ohio," Ted remarked, shaking his head.  
  
Oh. Right. Of all the things he remembered about that year, he tended to forget just how different all of  _that_  had been then, too. About Baltimore and the reason the Warblers couldn't compete at Nationals. About the name that shouldn't have been his, about his father...it was amazing how all that felt like an afterthought compared to what his Big Problem had been. As though he would have ever even met Kurt had it not been so awful in those days. "it was a pretty progressive school," he replied.  
  
"I can get you in to see her," Ted offered.  
  
"What? No - I don't think-"  
  
"Before or after a rehearsal or something. No big deal."  
  
"Don't you think that might be kind of...awkward?" Blaine ventured. "She might not even remember me." At least she probably didn't remember anything  _positive_  about him, just a terrified boy arguing with his lovesick boyfriend in hushed whispers by the punchbowl. Forgetting him completely might be better.  
  
Ted shrugged. "Worst case scenario, you get a rising star's autograph and get to watch a set. Not such a bad afternoon, right?"  
  
That depended on how the conversation went, he thought glumly. Reminiscing about the weekend she had stormed out of dinner thanks to the racist cheerleader wouldn't be a fun skip down memory lane any more than the prom stories would be. On second thought, it would definitely be better - and certainly more merciful for them both - if she had no idea who he was.  
  
...But on the other hand...  
  
Blaine was glad no one had ever forced him to admit how often his thoughts had turned to his first love over the years; the answer would have been mortifying. It wasn't a prolonged fascination - at least not anymore and not for quite some time. Just...momentary bouts of idle curiosity. What the boy - man, now...what the man was up to. If he had taken the world of fashion by storm. Whether he was in New York or some other fashion capitol. If he had a lover and they threw elegant soirees together like Kurt had dreamed of back then.  
  
If he was happy. Because more than anything, Blaine hoped he was.  
  
Mercedes might know the answers, he thought. She stood a far greater chance of knowing than anyone else Blaine was likely to see any time soon.  
  
He didn't need to know every detail of his former love's life; a decade earlier he would have jumped at the chance to find out everything - where he was working, who was in his life, how he spent his time, where he lived so he could, in a moment of either extreme weakness or unrealistic optimism, fly to New York and track Kurt down and, after a dramatic and heartfelt (and lengthy) apology, prove his worth as a boyfriend now that he had gotten past his fears. But now, at this stage in his life, with a safe city and enough time for self-reflection to understand why it was enough to just be different now, be  _better_ , he didn't need to pump Mercedes for Kurt's home address. He just needed to know that the brave boy had grown into a happy young man.  
  
(...and that he hadn't ruined Kurt and broken his trust in boys forever. He was pretty sure that was a little unrealistic, but confirmation would help him rest a little easier.)  
  
Then he could move on. It was the only piece left - he had learned, he had forgiven himself, he had striven to create a world that would help others avoid the mistakes he made. With confirmation that Kurt was doing well, he could officially close the door on that part of his life and move forward.  
  
Plus wish an old acquaintance luck in her career and hear what would be a really great concert.  
  
"You're right," he agreed finally, and Ted grinned at having convinced him.  
  
"Great. I'll set it up with Roger. I think the first one's next Friday."  
  
Perfect. So by Saturday morning he would have closure and could move on with is life. That sounded like a perfect start to the weekend.


	5. Chapter 5

There were times that, despite having been best friends for two decades, she had to wonder if Kurt even cared about her at all. Best friends and former faux-boyfriends didn't just abandon someone to move across the country with practically no warning, Rachel thought as she pushed open the glass door with her shoulder, careful to balance the stack of mimeographed papers in her arms and avoid smearing the ink all over her clothes. They certainly didn't do it in exchange for short-term career opportunities, no matter how likely the chance of fleeting fame. She certainly wouldn't do that to him, even if it was because her dream role came with an apartment above the theater - which she was pretty sure was an urban myth, but she had to admit she didn't have enough first-hand knowledge to confirm or deny. At most she would let Kurt move in  _with_  her instead of just leaving him to go downtown.  
  
And okay, he might point out that she had  _technically_  left him twice before, but that hadn't been her fault. It wasn't a very healthy idea to start a marriage while living with one party's former-fake-boyfriend - all the experts agreed. She was pretty sure, anyway - they would agree if they were asked. And Kurt had understood at the time, he had even agreed with her, he just liked to throw it back in her face when he was angry - he gloated about it, that was all. It was a character flaw of his she endeavored to fix, but no luck so far.  
  
Besides, he couldn't be serious that he had known neither marriage would work out. No one could have known - she certainly hadn't had any idea. Both men had been so  _perfect_  back then. No one could have predicted that either one of them would turn out to be a homosexual...even if Ricky and Kurt  _had_  joked about it practically from day one. That wasn't the point. They joked about plenty of things that didn't come true.  
  
And even if maybe they had turned out to be right about her ex-husbands, that didn't give Kurt the right to just leave her in the lurch like this, she added angrily as she slipped between the tables of patrons, careful not to jostle anyone sipping their coffee, and sidled up to the community bulletin board. There were already a dozen flyers up, which didn't really surprise her; this board was always filled with ads for people needing more roommates when their old ones moved out - to pursue acting jobs in California or to move back to the Midwest to teach acting instead - or because three waiters couldn't make ends meet the way three Broadway stars could. She was never going to be able to find someone...and even if she could, who could guarantee that the someone would be an acceptable roommate for her particular needs? She and Kurt had a  _routine_ , one that had taken years to perfect, and she could only imagine it would take just as long to train someone new about how she liked her post-show tea and not to interrupt her mid-morning vocal warmups. To say nothing of her dietary restrictions - no dairy, no meat, no eggs, with a preference for vegetables that had been grown on communes rather than large farms because she supported the workers who had chosen to dedicate their lives to growing better carrots.  
  
And even if she could find someone who understood her routine and adjusted their own accordingly, how would she find someone who was  _politically_  compatible? Someone who understood not only the importance of protecting the environment but also supported the rising cultural consciousness of the negro? She didn't think she could live with anyone who didn't, especially since her father's homosexual lover was one. She had to admit she probably did have a better chance here than anywhere else because her fellow Jews were well-known for being tolerant people, but still. What if her roommate was someone who thought women should stay at home instead of being empowered and liberated?   
  
...Or what if he was a serial killer? She could try to weed out some of the more brutal men, but even if she limited her roommates only to women that wouldn't save her; she could wind up with one of the lost Manson family members or something. And then what?  
  
She hoped Kurt was happy with himself and his decisions, she thought as she stabbed the thumbtack through her advertisement, making sure it covered most of the existing ads so it would be the first one anyone else saw. Because at the very least, he should be proud of himself for getting her killed by a woman named Squeaky.  
  
"Rachel?" She startled at her name - had someone stalked her already to get her phone number under the guise of renting a room from her? Or maybe it was just a fan who had recognized her...reassured and smiling brightly - like any good star should at all times - she turned to greet the potential-fan-slash-possible-killer and came face to face with an attractive man. About her age, maybe a couple years older at most but definitely under 40, he wore his light brown hair wavy and not quite to his shoulders - longer than John Travolta but shorter than David Cassidy which was good because if it were much longer he would probably look a little too feminine even for the current style. It wasn't his fault; his lips had this perfect pout to them and a peachy-pink shade that seemed almost unnatural but not in a bad way. His eyes were too narrow and wide-set but intense and-...so  _familiar_ , but she couldn't- "Rachel Berry?"  
  
"Yes?" she replied, still not sure who exactly this was or why he might want her attention.   
  
"I'm surprised I hadn't run into you yet,"the stranger replied with a self-satisfied expression, as though he had made some kind of prophecy that was now, thanks to this meeting, proven right, which was even creepier than someone just being a regular old stalker. "We both knew we would both make it to New York, and I'm sure you've only been here a year less than I have."  
  
His identity came to her suddenly, all at once, and she blurted out, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" His confused expression reminded her that he hadn't realized she had no idea who he was, and she blushed, looking away for a moment. "Jesse. You look..." Different, but not nearly as much as he could have in twenty years. His face was thinner now than it had been at 17, his chin a bit more pronounced, hair a little darker than she remembered, but still - she should have known him at first sight. It had just been so long... "Really good," she concluded. "How have you been?" She racked her brain, trying to remember every show that had premiered in the past eighteen years and every person who had had a role in any of them, because now that it was confirmed he was here, she felt like she must have heard his name sometime over the past two decades and just missed it; with as talented as he had been when they were young, there was no way he wasn't a star by now.  
  
...Unless he was suffering the same fate she was: more talented than anyone else in the room, but somehow never quite right for anything.   
  
"Fantastic," he replied with a broad grin - the smile was exactly the same as when they were younger, and for just a moment she felt her stomach flutter the way it had as a girl. He hadn't smiled much then, he'd been so ambitious - they both had. It was one of the things they had in common: unfailing, unwavering ambition and complete dedication to their future careers. Still, every so often he had let the mask drop to reveal that smile...like after the first time they kissed, on top of the ferris wheel at the Ohio State Fair, like every cliche she had thought for sure she would never have because no one she knew understood her the way boys understood girls in movies. She had always been too focused for other boys to pay her any attention, but Jesse... "And you?"  
  
She knew there were plenty of things she should be saying, a million things having happened since the last time she had seen him that she could talk about, tips he had given her that had served her well in auditions even now, but all her mind could focus on was why their happy little movie had ended. She couldn't actually remember - had it been because he was leaving after graduation? She didn't think so, she was pretty sure they had broken up before the following summer if only because she didn't remember him taking her to his spring dance, but she didn't remember anything going  _wrong_  enough to stop the relationship. Maybe it had just fizzled out, the way teenage romances so often did.   
  
This was silly, she chastised herself. There was no point in trying to remember something that had obviously not been important enough to leave an imprint on her memory anyway. "I've been good," she replied.   
  
"I assume you've been suffering from the same career affliction I have - no one else can recognize how exquisite you are," he stated.   
  
"How did you know?"  
  
"I told you: they can't see how exquisite I am, either," he replied, and she felt herself smiling - she wasn't even sure why, just that something about him still made her feel giddy. Maybe it was just a joy in someone else understanding her frustration in a way that Kurt never seemed to. That made more sense than any crush coming back.  
  
This was ridiculous, she told herself, knowing she should put an end to her heart's meander down memory lane. She was sure he was married by now...though a surreptitious glance down at his hand revealed a bare ring finger, which sent a surge of glee through her. "Are you working on anything?" she asked. If there was one thing they could talk about that would bring her back into focus, it was performing.   
  
"I was, but they replaced me with the man who spent all of the transvestite movie in his boxer shorts," Jesse replied with a slight shake of his head. "And you?"  
  
"Godspell," she replied, "which isn't exactly my dream show, you know, between the Christian overtones and the lack of a good belting solo even for the nights where I go on as the lead-"  
  
"You're right," he replied with a nod. "Your voice is better suited for other things."  
  
Kurt had never gotten that. He had tried being happy for her instead, though she suspected that might have to do with making sure he didn't have to pay the entire rent by himself - as though that was as important in the grand scheme of things as creative fulfillment. She always felt like he of all people should understand, considering how much he hated his now-former job and the design philosophy they had, but somehow he never seemed to understand that she could take a job and still hate the show. Jesse, though... "Exactly," she replied, feeling the smile creeping across her face again. "What brings you here? I would have seen you if you came here often, so this can't be a usual place for you."  
  
"It's not," he confirmed. "The coffee is much better around the corner, it doesn't need to be hidden with cream which obviously as a conscientious performer I can't have. But the bulletin board here always has more advertisements, and with my roommate's sudden departure for Los Angeles to film a television pilot, I need a new apartment."  
  
"You're looking for somewhere to stay?" she asked, not sure she could believe her luck. Someone who understood her, her needs, her profession...who was, if memory served, neat enough that Kurt wouldn't complain about him taking his room, and with whom she had - at least at one point - had a fantastic personal connection. She couldn't think of many people who would make a more ideal roommate (under the circumstances, anyway. Obviously when Kurt came back he would go back to being her perfect companion, even if she was still angry at his insensitive departure). "Here - my phone number's on it," she added as she handed him a flyer from the top of her stack.   
  
Jesse perused it, nodding. "I like how you put your name at the top like a marquis. Anyone staying with you should be aware they're staying with a star," he commented, and Rachel grinned.  
  
"Thank you." Kurt had thought it was ridiculous; clearly he had been wrong. "It's available anytime."  
  
"Perfect," he replied. He carefully folded the paper, creasing it neatly, and placed it in his back pocket. "I'll call you before 5." He started to turn toward, the door, then paused and turned back. "I'm glad I ran into you."  
  
Rachel grinned, then turned and tore down her poster, sliding the rest into a trash can. Well. Now that was taken care of.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt stretched as he woke slowly, groaning contentedly as the action caused him to sink deeper into the mattress. Despite warnings from Mercedes' handlers at the label that they wouldn't be in upscale accommodations because she wasn't Diana Ross  _yet_ , Kurt had to admit that even downscale in LA seemed pretty swank. The room was larger than his living room back in New York, for one thing, probably the size of his entire domain of the apartment, and his closet here was bigger too - or did it just look that way because there were fewer clothes crammed into it? The bed was definitely an upgrade; he'd never had a king before. It had taken four hours for him and Ricky to move in the queen-sized one at home, including hauling the mattress up five flights of tightly-coiled stairs and assembling the frame around themselves because it was wedged too tightly against three walls to move around it. Making the bed every morning, let alone changing the sheets, was an arduous task requiring slim fingers and knowing just where the wall was uneven enough to keep from getting his knuckles stuck.  
  
It would be a breeze here, even without housekeeping.  
  
Kurt opened his eyes and rolled over to pick up the phone on the nightstand. When the cheerful voice answered automatically, he mumbled his breakfast order while stifling a yawn, then hung up and placed the receiver back in the cradle. Reaching blindly, he grabbed his sketchbook from the nightstand. He had filled ten pages yesterday, eight the day before that, and by week's end he would need a new one at this rate. He couldn't help himself; there were so many things out here to inspire him. Spanish architecture, art nouveau furniture, reminders of hippie culture on every street corner...after decades of staring at the same skyscrapers, maybe the change in scenery had been an even better idea than he had imagined.   
  
Even if he still couldn't get used to how flat and spread out everything was. Going from a completely vertical city with short, walkable blocks and nothing further than five miles away unless he wanted to leave Manhattan (which he never did), to a place where everything was a 20-minute drive away, did feel a little like venturing to an expensive, never-ending suburb. Still, it was hard to complain when the label had provided them with a car on top of Mercedes' new manager driving them to all the music-related meetings and functions.  
  
At the knock on the door he set down his pencil and padded to the door, opening it to let the room service cart in. After pressing a few dollars into the attendant's hand for a tip - the rest would be covered by the tab, which made it even better - he moved the steaming plate of eggs and toast to the small table by the window and plopped down in the chair to enjoy his last few minutes of solitude for the morning. With meetings at the label and a lunch... _something_ , Kurt still didn't know what exactly...and then a tech rehearsal at the club, he wouldn't be back in his room to work on finishing his current project until at least 7, probably more like 8. Being Mercedes' personal wardrobe assistant certainly involved a lot more work than he had thought. He guessed it shouldn't have surprised him; being a designer involved a lot more than being in his office with a dress form and then taking a pile of fabric to a sewing machine. There were always meetings to talk about themes and show progress and "collaborate" which usually left Kurt wondering how his coworkers could be so frustrating and dim. At least these meetings involved agendas such as spending 2 hours discussing Mercedes' image or setting his budget to go wild at fabric stores throughout the city. Plus any day she was in the recording studio was his to spend creating, and she had plenty of those coming up. He just couldn't help but want to finish what he had been working on.  
  
He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten paid for anything he had stayed up late to work on by  _choice_  rather than by looming deadline. LA was fantastic.  
  
By a few minutes after 10, sunglasses in hand and the satchel containing his sketchbook and swatches slung over his shoulder, he strode into the lobby. Mercedes was already waiting by the door, eyebrows raised in skeptical annoyance as though she didn't believe he could be late. A quick glance at the clock on the wall assured him it was only by four minutes, which wasn't that bad; he had seen Mercedes do worse, anyway. He stopped to look her over - as her paid stylist it was his duty now, in addition to being a habit he'd had as long he could remember. The black flares were hers and fit her like a dream; the top was his creation, and he had to admire his handiwork in the draping - the swaths of translucent patterned chiffon looked effortless around her arms, and the torso didn't hide her curves the way most designers would. Though she was wearing the shoes he had picked for her - platform sandals with pink to match the shirt's pattern - he couldn't help but notice she had taken free reign with the accessories. He liked the headband; she looked young, relaxed, and natural. But the large disc-shaped earrings were another matter.  
  
"What?" she asked as she noticed him staring.  
  
"Really? Those?"  
  
"I like them - they're fun. And they look pink in the light, so they match without being too matchy."  
  
"They look like disco balls in any light," he replied, already reaching into his satchel. He only had to feel around in the front pocket for a moment before coming up with a new pair - dangles with silver hoops on the end. "Take these."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"They don't compete with the shirt. And because you pay me to," he added, teasing.  
  
"I should have known you'd lord that over me," she joked as she reached up to remove the pair she was wearing and swap them for the pair in Kurt's palm. "Why do you have my earrings in your bag?"  
  
"Part of the job - always have options."  
  
Mercedes grinned and slipped on the second one. "What do you think?"  
  
"Perfect," Kurt replied sincerely. "Where's Marvin?"  
  
"He called five minutes before you came down and said five minutes." She glanced through the glass door toward the car loop, looking for her manager's navy sedan.  
  
"Has he said anything to you?"  
  
"About the venue, or-" she rolled her eyes as she saw where the conversation was veering; they had been here before. "He doesn't hate you, Kurt."  
  
"I beg to differ," he replied. He had tried not being sullen about it, not jumping to conclusions, but something about the way Marvin rolled his eyes at everything Kurt had done left him feeling like he wasn't imagining things anymore.  
  
"You're just being too sensitive about stuff like this."  
  
Kurt bit his tongue, knowing this conversation far too well - and therefore painfully aware of exactly how it would end. He wanted to point out that the reason he was sensitive to "stuff like this" was because he had lived it every single day for as long as he could remember, so that if he drew a line quickly between a manager who began each meeting by looking Mercedes up and down and then shooting a glare his direction before shaking his head in disappointment and moving on with the rest of their meeting, and someone who snorted derisively at any suggestion of sequins - on a  _performance outfit_  no less - to conclude that the man wasn't too wild about his rising star's gayer-than-Paul-Lynde designer friend, he didn't think it was a big leap to make. Nor was it unreasonable to suppose that the man probably didn't like Elton John, either. Or David Bowie. If the past decade had taught him anything, it was that just because someone didn't shout slurs across 8th Avenue didn't mean they liked you; it just meant the NYPD wasn't allowed to arrest gay people for nonsense crimes like loitering or buying alcohol anymore. The world was much kinder to him now than it had been, that was for sure, but it didn't mean that everyone in the country had awoken on the morning of June 30, 1969 and suddenly felt the need to support gay freedom.  
  
The problem with trying to point that out, he knew all too well, was that Mercedes would inevitably point out that given her years of experience with invidious discrimination, she would recognize if Kurt were being treated the same way she had been, which meant that - in her mind, anyway - if she didn't see mistreatment, then it must not be happening. He had tried pointing out once that she sounded like Rachel's intense and ill-fated dabbling with the women's liberationists, claiming that if one type of discrimination wasn't obvious to someone who had never experienced it, it must not apply to anyone. He had never seen Mercedes so mad at him as she had been when he had suggested she was akin to a group of white upper-middle-class women who claimed they were "the new negroes,"and Kurt knew better than to imply any such thing again, especially without Ricky around to try to compare the two from experience.  
  
He knew she had a point, and the analogy wasn't exact - he hadn't meant it to be, which might have been his first mistake. He remembered how horribly she had been treated - and just as the world hadn't suddenly embraced him and his ilk, the country hadn't suddenly embraced their black brothers and sisters the day after the Civil Rights Act was signed into law. Even if tv and music were more racially diverse than ever, it didn't mean things were fixed now and he wouldn't try to claim otherwise. But none of that meant homophobia didn't exist just because Mercedes didn't see it.  
  
But in the interest of their friendship, and in keeping their remaining time in LA a fun adventure, he didn't say anything.  
  
"There he is," he pointed past Mercedes' shoulder to the familiar car braking in front of the hotel. "Shall we?" Mercedes slipped her arm through his and they strode through the automatic-open door together as Marvin popped out of the driver's side and leaned against the car to watch them over the roof. He looked Mercedes over and, with a grumbling sigh, shook his head. Standing a little taller, Kurt asked, "Is there a problem?" When Marvin just kind of huffed and looked like he might be rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses, Kurt challenged further, "You didn't give me any details about the lunch, but I have plenty more options upstairs if this isn't appropriate for the event you put together."  
  
Marvin looked from him to Mercedes, who stood awkwardly at her friend's side, and backed down a little. "It's fine."  
  
"Are you sure?" Kurt prodded, pushing a little more. "I'd hate to be accused of doing my job incorrectly just because you didn't quite do yours."  
  
"Down, boy," Mercedes warned out of the corner of her mouth.  
  
"It's better than I hoped for," he replied cooly, then added for good measure - lest Kurt count this round as a win - "You look great in that colour, Mercedes. And it's nice to be able to see you without the usual haze of sequin glow. Now - let's go. We're supposed to be there in 15 minutes."  
  
As Marvin slipped out of sight behind the car, Kurt shot Mercedes a look. Did she get it now? The eye-rolling, going right for the sequins? Did she see what he meant? "Don't look at me," she replied to the unspoken question. "It seems mutual to me. And besides, I do look great in this colour." Kurt sighed to himself as he opened the door for Mercedes, then slipped in after her. With the mood in the car starting this icy, he had a feeling it was going to be a long day.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Of all the stupid, over-eager, sure-to-be-regretted, ridiculous things he had done in his life, Blaine thought as he stared up at the front of the building, this was certainly going to end up toward the top of the list.  
  
What was he even doing here? Just because Ted had told him that he could come hang out with the crew and watch a tech rehearsal didn't mean he  _had_  to. He could have said no. He could have gone on that tour of stars' homes he kept meaning to take, or he could have gone in search of a new sheet music store to start thinking about his classes and choirs for next year, or he could have gone swimming in the algae-filled pool at his complex, or done  _anything_  but come here.  
  
She either wouldn't remember him at all or wouldn't remember anything  _good_  about him - which was his fault. He understood that. He'd been awful to her at the dance, so caught up in his own fears that he had constantly felt like he couldn't breathe, and all that had taken up every last bit of energy he'd had back then. She'd be right to remember him as that preoccupied jerk who had ignored her all evening when she wanted to dance.  
  
He had been so miserable that night, too - wanting to be able to give Kurt what he asked for, what he longed for, but completely unable to do anything about it and feeling guilty for both being powerless to help and for even considering it. Why in the world did he want to go tripping down memory lane and relive all of that?  
  
 _Closure_ , he reminded himself. Proving he hadn't ruined Kurt, learning about the man's dreams coming true,and finally shutting the door on the agonizing parts of his past. He'd made peace with everything else; this was all that was left.  
  
He could do this. He could-  
  
Why did he have to do this? Couldn't he just accept that he had been awful for a valid reason, reassure himself that no one had the power to irreparably break another human being - certainly not one as strong and sure of himself as Kurt had been - and forgive himself and move on? If he was thriving as an openly-gay music teacher in spite of everything his father had tried to beat into his head over a lifetime, then Blaine had no doubt Kurt was doing much better than fine. Why did he need to go stalk a girl he had dated once and met twice to prove to himself that he was worthy of absolution?  
  
He should go. The bus stop was just down the block, and it went all the way to the beach in a straight shot. That would be a better way to spend the afternoon - he could still reflect if he wanted but wouldn't be bothering a very busy performer who had more than enough going on without him showing up.  
  
The door swung open and a man in black pants and ill-fitting black short-sleeved button-down shirt emerged carrying a rolled-up rug beneath his right arm. "We don't open until 8," he stated, voice gruff and face grizzled as he dug a cigarette out of the pack sticking halfway out of his right pocket.  
  
Blaine blinked and took a step back. "I'm sorry. A friend of mine- nevermind. Thank you." Clearly the universe or fate or whatever was out there was telling him this didn't need to happen. It was a great day for the beach anyway.  
  
The man fixed his gaze on Blaine as he stuck the cigarette between his lips and fished out a lighter. "You with Ted?" he asked around the smoke.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Go on in," he replied, head jerking toward the door. "He's up on a ladder backstage, said you'd be stopping by."  
  
Or the universe couldn't make up its mind anymore. Blaine tried to force a smile even though he still wasn't sure this was a good idea. Maybe he could just fake an emergency or something.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Surely enough, by the time they got to the venue, Kurt was ready to be back in his hotel room, eating room service in his pajamas and pinning together the sparkliest, ABBA-ified jumpsuit ever just to prove he could. It had been  _that_  kind of a day. The meeting at the label had lasted until well past lunch, a seemingly endless stream of Very Important Executives ducking in for a few minutes and ducking right back out as soon as a more established star arrived in the building for their own meeting. Kurt couldn't help but notice that every person in the room  _except_  Marvin had liked his ideas for Mercedes' image and wardrobe, which did improve his mood for awhile. One could only stay excited for so long during a 3-hour block of meetings, though. Even Mercedes had been sick of it by then. But everything was still moving forward, which Marvin stressed (for the entire 20 minutes en route to lunch) was a great sign and kind of rare. He'd been just an observer at the lunch meeting that took place about two hours later than expected, which had given him a chance to stuff his face unnoticed and politely pretend to listen to the songwriting team while he doodled croquis. Three pages and five napkins later, they had finally departed for the showcase venue where they now had only 2 hours to figure out what was supposed to take 4 and a half hours to decide.  
  
Soon, he told himself. They'd be done soon. And at least for this leg of the day, he would be responsible for doing his own part instead of waiting through everyone else's presentations, at least in theory. He needed to figure out what to dress Mercedes in - what would look best under the lights, at the angle where the audience would be, at the distance from the stage...none of which was he usually responsible for doing, at least not officially, but the more he thought about it the more he realized it wasn't unlike planning an outfit for Ricky or Milan or any of the girls: it was all about being seen by the whole room and looking equally stunning under all possible light settings. The only real difference was that Ricky's boobs could be resized to fit the dress,and he didn't think Mercedes would be okay with that. He chuckled to himself at the thought but stopped as one of the stagehands turned to see what was so funny.  
  
The inside of the club was a little darker than he had expected, a lounge-like atmosphere with dim, moody lighting and a combination of booths and bartop tables - much closer to the little bars up in Harlem where he had gone to watch her more than a decade ago than to a venue befitting a rising superstar. He wasn't sure whether he should say anything, but luckily Mercedes said it for him. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"  
  
Marvin paused to glance back at his star. "What's that?"  
  
"This is like where I used to sing when I was 19. I was expecting a lot bigger."  
  
"You only have two original blockbuster songs so far," Marvin pointed out. "You're not ready for sold-out stadiums by yourself yet. This is just a chance to get you some exposure while you record."  
  
"And how am I supposed to get exposure here? There'll be like eight people, all of them gettin' it on in that corner booth."  
  
"They've got some big acts coming this summer," Marvin assured her. "You'll see."  
  
"Who would-"  
  
"Humour me, Mercedes. Besides, it's you, a piano player, and a stage. Are you saying you'd turn it down?"  
  
They were the magic words, and Marvin knew it. Even a small show was better than no show at all. "I guess it can't hurt," Mercedes allowed, and Marvin grinned.  
  
"That's what I thought. Now let's get started. We kept these guys waiting long enough." As Marvin led Mercedes toward the stage, introducing her to an assortment of people along the way, Kurt moved into the center of the lounge to set up shop. He set his satchel on the table and pulled out his swatch board. After adjusting it for a moment, smoothing down the sample fabrics, he moved to the stage and propped it against the monitor at center stage, then stood back to make notes. Mercedes stepped onstage and leaned against the piano as she discussed the paritculars of songs with the pianist while Kurt stood back and glanced at his watch. He might end up with quite a bit of down-time here, too, he realized; a cue-to-cue rehearsal for the lighting guys was one thing and usually went fast enough, but if she was doing notes with the musician he wouldn't be able to do much for awhile. With a tired sigh, he pulled out his sketchbook and flipped to a blank page. He was used to at least dragging Ricky along with him when he would have time to kill, and his best friend could make even sitting around a mostly-empty club fun.  
  
He wondered what Ricky was up to right now - face? No, not quite yet. It was a little before 8 back home, so he was probably about to leave the bookstore. Grab dinner on the way home from that great little char-grilled chicken place up on 125th, then eat it before applying his fake nails. Even if it didn't make sense to do nails before makeup, he always did it that way.  
  
He needed to find some way to get Ricky out here. Then things would be perfect.  
  
He began to sketch a non-traditional gown pieced together in sculptural waves - like the red Spanish roof tile he saw practically everywhere out here. Waves at his sides to create hips, over one shoulder like a sash to create drama...it would take a lot of facing, but he could do it. And Ricky would either say it was brilliant or ask if Kurt really didn't know the difference between Mexico and Puerto Rico. But it would certainly turn heads when he got back.  
  
 _If_  he went back. He still wasn't really sure; it was too early to plan anything long-term yet.  
  
The lights changed, and Kurt looked up, ready to figure out which fabrics were the best contenders. To his dismay, the board was in a dead zone, wholly enveloped by shadows and barely visible. He needed to move it - but where? Leaning it against the leg of the piano would create the same problem, and even if he could find something to use to prop it up on top of the piano somewhere, the lighting there would be different than the lights on Mercedes through most of the show. He could stand behind her holding up the board, but then he couldn't see it - and would be in her way, so he couldn't send a low-level lighting assistant up there, either (if there even were one in a venue this small). So unless Mercedes could hold it for him - and she had too many more important things to do...unless...  
  
Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a small bag of safety pins and walked up to the front of the stage. Plucking up the board from its resting place, he began to peel the swatches up one by one while he waited for a good moment to interrupt. After about four minutes, they paused to figure out something with the travel spot - Kurt didn't hear what exactly, but he took the opportunity. Pulling himself up onstage, he opened the bag of pins. "Bear with me," he requested as he began to, one by one, pin the swatches to the bottom of her shirt. He hated to think about what this would do to the organza, but if it was low enough he could fix the hem and hide it. "You sound great, by the way, the accoustics are surprisingly good."  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" Mercedes asked, looking down at him but having enough sense not to try to move.  
  
"Seeing which dress will look best in these lights. Just ignore them. I'll fix the shirt tonight."  
  
"Is this another weird thing I pay you to do?" she teased.  
  
"Of course,"he replied as he pinned the last one into place and double-checked that all the safety pins were closed. "Hard to believe neither of us thought to mention this as a future ambition during career day when we were 17," he chuckled, and Mercedes rolled her eyes at him, then froze. "What?"  
  
She glanced offstage in the direction she had come, trying to see something Kurt couldn't find; there was no one there, at least not that he could see, and he didn't know of any props she needed. "I  _knew_  I knew him. He-"  
  
"Who?" Kurt asked.  
  
But before she could answer, a voice behind him asked, "Excuse me?"  
  
"Sorry, I'll be out of your hair in-" he stated, gathering the safety pins and turning to exit the stage only to come face-to-face with a pair of painfully-familiar golden brown eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Once upon a time, more than ten years ago now, Blaine had dreamed about reuniting with the young man he had wronged. He'd had elaborate fantasies about running into him at a bar in Polk Gulch, daydreams about running off to New York to track him down and fix things hallucinations of seeing him cross the quad at Stanford even though he'd never been able to figure out what in the world Kurt would have been doing there. He had imagined a thousand or more ways of accidentally finding his former love again - Paul Simon's list of ways to leave a lover had nothing on his list of how to find them again. But never, in any of his flights of fantasy, could he have conceived that Kurt would be so strikingly, breathtakingly handsome.  
  
The boy he had remembered had been just that - a cute boy, with his round cheeks and school uniform and lithe, youthful frame. The man before him was mesmerizing. His cheekbones were prominent now, his jaw squared and strong, face thinned with age and good health. He was taller, too; Blaine didn't have to stand next to him to know that there would be more than a few inches difference between them now. And slimmer but with muscle tone clear from the way he moved, from the way his crisp white shirt drew across his bicep as he worked to pin small squares of fabric to Mercedes' skirt.  
  
His voice was different - deeper. Not much, but enough, less childlike though not more masculine. But the self-deprecating chuckle was the same despite the lower pitch, every bit as adorably awkward as Blaine remembered. His expressions remained the way they had been etched in his memory for too long - the look of deadpan annoyance, the way he looked as he concentrated...his  _smile_ -  
  
Kurt still took his breath away.  
  
What was he supposed to now? He hadn't expected to see the man - he hadn't even considered this might be a possibility, not really. Did he go say hello? Say something else? Sing something? - no, that was stupid. No one went around singing their feelings like that, not as an adult. But what could he even try to say after all these years? That Kurt looked good? That he was sorry? That he wished he could go back and not hurt him in the way that he had? That he hoped Kurt was happy in his life and his career?  
  
He had to say  _something_. He couldn't see the man after all these years and say nothing at all - he would regret that for the next 15 years. Drawing in a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he stepped slowly across the room, trying to be patient despite his nerves. As he saw Kurt move back, task completed, Blaine saw his opportunity and seized it. "Excuse me?"  
  
 _Excuse me? What kind of a thing is that to say?_  he thought, his mind in the early stages of a blind panic. What was he doing? This was stupid - he shouldn't say anything, especially if he couldn't come up with anything more coherent than-  
  
...Kurt's eyes were the same peculiar mix of blues and greens and greys they had always been. They widened as they saw him, surprised - Blaine couldn't blame him. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"A friend of a friend owns the place and heard I knew Mercedes. What are you doing here?"  
  
Kurt's eyes narrowed at the mention of his friend's name, as though he were...Blaine didn't even know - angry that there was some kind of claim to her? Because that wasn't what he was doing, and if he were sure that was what Kurt's problem was he would point that out, if he could get his brain working well enough to form an explanation. With a quirk of his eyebrow - as elegantly-arched as ever - he held up the bag of safety pins he had been holding and used it to gesture at Mercedes' skirt, adorned with scraps of all types of sparkly fabrics. "I'm in charge of her wardrobe," he replied dryly, voice tight and painfully even the way it used to get when he was trying not to show how much something bothered him.  
  
Did that mean things weren't going well and his career was a sore spot? Because Blaine wasn't sure he could imagine anything Kurt would be better at. The man was a natural-born showman. "They look amazing. I didn't know you designed dresses - I always imagined you doing menswear, the way you used to dress-"  
  
"Mostly," he replied tersely. Blaine blinked, able to tell clearly from the tone that he should back off but not sure  _why_. Was Kurt still angry with him? Gosh, he hoped not - the idea that he'd hurt the boy back then was horrible enough, let alone that the man should still feel actively maligned now.   
  
It made the need for closure and an explanation all the more urgent. If he could just tell Kurt why he'd been so scared back then, how much he truly regretted how things had turned out and his role in it, maybe he could improve the man's mood...and make him smile again, maybe?  
  
"How long are you going to be out in LA? Because I would love to-" he began. He wanted to at least do what little he could to apologize. Maybe they could go for coffee or explore the city if Kurt hadn't relocated permanently out here, and he could express how genuinely he regretted the pain Kurt had suffered at his hand - because he understood how that felt now, being abandoned by a boy even if it was for a good reason. It could only help.  
  
Kurt cut him off with a sharp, "I have to work, Blaine." His irritated tone was tight, high in his throat, and the way he said the name...Blaine wasn't sure it had ever sounded so harsh coming from anyone before. The man could have cut glass with that word alone.   
  
A part of him felt like he deserved it, maybe - Kurt was right, they didn't know each other anymore, and he had been rotten. He...he did know that. But he liked to think that even if time didn't heal wounds, it had soothed his (mostly, anyway); to see it hadn't done the same for Kurt was more agonizing than the first time he had imagined his former love happy with someone who wasn't him.   
  
"Sure," Blaine managed, forcing the best smile he could despite his dejection. "I understand. Do you mind if I watch the rehearsal?"  
  
Strictly speaking, the glare he received wasn't exactly an answer, but it said all it needed to.  
  
* * * * *  
  
By the time Kurt returned to the hotel, he felt like he couldn't breathe - chest tightening around his heart and lungs, throat half-swollen, every muscle tense like he might vibrate out of his skin. He slipped quickly out of the back of Marvin's sedan and through the automatic doors, his shoes clacking heavily across the lobby as he made a beeline for the elevators. An hour of having to stand ramrod straight and ignore Blaine - or stop himself from looking around to see where the man was lurking, because he could practically  _feel_  those eyes boring into him even after Blaine had slunk away and let him get back to trying to work - had been exhausting...and he was used to rising above and ignoring things and people that were driving him crazy. But those damned eyes and that stupid wounded-puppy expression...  
  
He punched the button for his floor and let out a sigh, leaning heavily against the back wall of the elevator as the doors slid shut. Why was he there? Yes he had said it was to see Mercedes and something about a friend knowing someone who knew someone, but  _why_? What had possessed Blaine to go see a singer he had met two or three times almost twenty years ago? Who did that?  
  
But maybe more importantly, why did he care when it had been almost twenty years? Whether he thought it was a normal thing to do or not to go visit an old acquaintance, it certainly shouldn't make him feel like  _this_. He hadn't been angry over it in years - he had moved on. He wasn't 17 anymore, he was a grown man with friends and a community and a career that was about to take off.  
  
So why did he suddenly feel like that abandoned schoolboy he used to be?  
  
He stepped into the hall, digging his room key out of his pocket. He just needed a long, hot shower and he'd be able to let it all go again. It had thrown him, that was all. Seeing Blaine after half a lifetime apart had caught him off-guard because he had never imagined it would happen, let alone to see him at something so wholly unrelated to the life they had never quite had together...it threw him for a loop, that was all. Shaking his head, he unlocked his hotel room and headed right for the bathroom, peeling off his clothes on the way. He would fold them later, once he could think straight again.  
  
The spray of the shower was hard and relentless, a hot and driving rain to soothe his tired muscles, and he let out a long sigh. This was what he needed; he could already feel himself relaxing as he ran his fingers back through his wet hair and reached for the shampoo.  
  
...He hadn't been honest with himself earlier, he had to admit, lathering the suds into his thick hair and massaging his scalp with his fingertips. He had imagined seeing Blaine again. It had been years, but he had thought about it. Usually it was part of a bitter revenge fantasy: Blaine alone and miserable (or sometimes married and even more miserable) while he himself was happy and fulfilled, having a chance meeting on the street or down in the subway that left him invigorated and Blaine mournful and pained with regret at ever letting Kurt go. Sometimes the fantasy had been more cathartic: a chance encounter during which Kurt could read him the riot act for every cruel thing the boy had done to him. Those particular scenarios usually came after things had gone wrong in his life: a breakup, or the time he hadn't gotten the promotion he had more than earned, or the month he'd had to scrape together the rent using some of Ricky's hooking money because Rachel had abandoned him for her first husband with only a week's notice.  
  
...Why couldn't he remember any of the great speeches he'd written in his head for those occasions? The lists of all the rotten ways Blaine had screwed up his chances for happiness - they had been long lists, comprehensive...why hadn't he been able to think of a single thing to say? After all this time of thinking about how hurt he had been, why hadn't a single cruelty come to mind? All the things he had dreamed of being able to tell him, and all he had managed to say was "What are you doing here?" and "I have to work?" How ridiculous.  
  
(If he were being fair - which he really didn't want to be - he had to admit that he had imagined hypothetically seeing Blaine a few other times over the years under much less hate-filled circumstances: skulking around the Village while he had watched from the window of the Oscar Wilde Bookstore while Ricky finished the closing shift; sitting across the table from him at Mama's, hands touching in public; standing among the throng of crying homosexuals at Judy Garland's funeral, mourning the loss of their icon and shared musical heart. But even that had been awhile.)  
  
(...and why did he have to look good? Why couldn't he be half-bald and overweight the way plenty of married men their ages were by now?)  
  
(...If he was married. Kurt had been too distracted to steal a peek at the man's left hand. Not that he cared for himself, of course - purely for mental ammunition.)  
  
He twisted off the taps with a sharp turn of his wrist. The shower wasn't doing anything to relax him anymore. He wrapped himself in his thick terrycloth robe and quickly towel-dried his hair, then padded into the hotel room. He needed to talk to someone - someone who would help remind him of all the angry things he had wanted to say, who would help him gather his anger and channel it back at the man who had interrupted him out of nowhere and spent an hour watching him from the wings of a Hollywood lounge.  
  
Ricky was a good choice for bashing any ill-suited suitor if only because his creative insults were legendary even among the other ballroom girls. But maybe under the circumstances, he should try Rachel first, he thought. If anyone could remind him about all the painful, destructive things Blaine had done - and how wrecked he had been over it for far too long to admit if he wanted to keep his pride - it would be the person who had been beside him at the time. Besides, she hadn't been a ray of sunshine lately, and if she wanted to channel some of her anger with him it could only help sour his mood for the next time he saw Blaine again.  
  
 _If_  he saw Blaine again. The boy did tend to run away the second he got scared or something didn't go his way.  
  
(He should write that down for later. So he would remember because apparently even the most obvious flaws seemed to vanish into thin air in Blaine's presence.)  
  
He sat down on the bed and picked up the receiver, then stopped as he stared at the phone cradle. Uneven, double-typed letters warned  **NO LONG-DISTANCE**. He knew that; he had been calling Ricky from the payphone down the street for a reason. But this was a conversation he did not feel like having standing in a tiny booth on a corner where he would have to cradle the phone against his ear while he scrawled out insults and sins by holding his notebook up against the plastic wall. With a deep sigh, he pressed 0 and hoped she wasn't still angry with him after all; it didn't take too much goodwill to pick up the phone and let him explain the situation before she could hang up on him...it took substantially more to accept a collect call from California.  
  
Rather than sounding irritated, she sounded panicked as her voice came on the line. "Kurt? Are you okay? What happened?"  
  
He blinked, not sure he understood where that response had come from, and replied, "Calm down, Rachel, everything's fine." His voice wasn't quite as fine as he wanted it to be, but lucky for him she wasn't very good at paying attention to little things when she was in the midst of freaking out. Ricky would have called him out on it but let him get away with not talking about it; Rachel wouldn't notice until he said something but wouldn't let him stop halfway into the conversation.  
  
"Then why are you calling me collect? Do you know how expensive this is going to be?"  
  
"I'll send you a check," he replied dryly. "The hotel is local calls only."  
  
"Are you sure? Because from the way it looks on the news I'm surprised your lungs haven't collapsed yet. Are murderers lurking everywhere?"  
  
"Fewer than in New York."   
  
"...That's true," she allowed. He could hear her drawing in two slow deep breaths in succession and smiled faintly to himself as he pictured her sitting on their couch in her pajamas, calming herself down from the terror of thinking her friend was being stalked by criminals and called her collect. Despite how crazy she could drive him, he really did miss her. It was strange having the hotel room to himself, and though he loved having more room for his products in the bathroom, they had lived together for all but 3 of the past 16 years after all. "So are you sunburned yet?"  
  
"I've spent almost every hour in my room sewing or in meetings with Mercedes. I see more sun walking to work at home," he replied, and he could hear the smile in her voice as she replied.  
  
"Good. I know we tease you about being practically the color of the walls, but your porcelain skin is a gift, Kurt. Besides, we both know prolonged exposure causes wrinkles which neither of us can afford."  
  
He could afford them better than she could, but he was even more determined not to get them. "I'm fully protected," he replied, and they fell into a long silence that in person would have been comfortable but over the phone just made her seem even further away than the mileage would bear out. She couldn't see him and wheedle the truth out of him here, and he drew in a deep breath before beginning, "The reason I called-"  
  
"It's okay, Kurt, I know you miss me."   
  
He smiled faintly, because if ever there were a reminder that the more people changed, the more they stayed the same, his friend was the perfect, shining example. "I do," he replied sincerely. "But I need your help."  
  
"Really? With what? Because if it's about industry connections, I don't know many people out there-"  
  
"Blaine's here."  
  
That shut her up quickly, for which Kurt was both grateful and unnerved - not because she was quiet, that had happened occasionally over 13 years, but because the silence stretching between them made the statement more  _real_. Telling another person took Blaine from a figment of his imagination - the product of an angry conscience or annoyance at Marvin or too long of a day - into a real, live ex-boyfriend standing behind him without warning.  
  
Not that he was sure what kind of warning would have been appropriate. He wouldn't have been any happier had he known in advance, but at least he could have had his speech better prepared. Which was what he needed to do now - for next time.  
  
He hoped there wouldn't be a next time. He doubted there would be. But just in case.  
  
"What do you mean he's  _there_? In your room, or-"  
  
There were times Kurt seriously wondered about how her brain worked. "If he were in my room, would I be calling you?" He pointed out. "In LA. He showed up at the club where Mercedes is performing next week, and he just..." He sighed, sinking onto the bed, bringing the phone with him. "I don't know. I didn't think I'd ever see him again. Or if I did, I thought I'd be able to give him a piece of my mind and move on, but all of a sudden everything was blank."  
  
There was another pause, and when Rachel responded she sounded...odd. Forced, like she was reading lines that had been scripted for her (poorly). "You know, it can be strange meeting back up with someone after so long. It's hard to know where things stand."  
  
Kurt blinked, eyebrows knitting together. "No..." he replied slowly. "Where it stands is that he took off and broke my heart when we were 17 and I haven't seen him since. There's nothing else to stand."  
  
"That's not true," Rachel replied earnestly. "If it were really closed, you wouldn't need to be calling me because you wouldn't have feelings to resolve about seeing him. I know if I saw Jerry or Fred, I would have nothing left to say to him, but one look at Jesse and I knew there was unfinished business."  
  
"Jesse?" Kurt repeated, trying to thumb through his mental rolodex of her myriad of unsuccessful relationships.   
  
"You remember him. He went to Carmel, fantastic voice..."  
  
"From high school?" When had she seen him again? He hadn't heard that name since...well, since before the last time he'd seen Blaine. Jesse predated him in Rachel's dating history, which was saying a lot because he was pretty sure if they were really a couple they'd be coming up on 20 years together by now.   
  
"That's right, but I saw him in the coffee shop the other day when I was putting up posters about letting your room, and I figured since he's an actor, too, and understands the lifestyle and the grueling requirements of maintaining peak performance, he'd be an ideal-"  
  
"Are you telling me that your ex-boyfriend is living in my bedroom right now?"  
  
"Considering the way you left with hardly any notice, I don't think you get to complain. You did leave me in the lurch, you know, and at least he's clean and well-mannered and not going to ruin your clothes...or kill me in my sleep."  
  
Kurt rolled his eyes and sunk deeper into the bed. She might have a point on that front - not the lack of notice or concern for her welfare or whatever argument she kept trying to make, but what little Kurt remembered of the boy - which was a  _very_  little, since he and Rachel hadn't been as close yet before his year at Dalton - was a well-dressed, well-coiffed boy who was even more pretentious and dramatic than his girlfriend. His bedroom could be inhabited by worse, he guessed. "So what's it like? Being around each other again?"  
  
"I would say we picked up where we left off, but since neither of us could quite remember where that was, we just sort of...chose a place."  
  
"You're dating him again?"  
  
"Oh, calm down," Rachel replied dismissively. "We're adults, and neither of us has been seeing anyone else in quite awhile, and-"  
  
"I swear to God, if you do anything in my bed-" he hadn't meant to say that part out loud, but judging from the indignant sound on Rachel's end of the line, he had done so.   
  
"Is it really so hard to be happy for me?" She asked, and he could picture her expression - equal parts wounded and indignant. Maybe she did have a point, he guessed. She wasn't 15 anymore, she could date whoever she wanted, and if that someone happened to be someone she had known back in Ohio, what business was it of his? Until or unless she abandoned the apartment again in favour of some closeted gay man who liked her style and her open-mindedness, did it really matter who she saw - especially when he was on the other side of the country?   
  
"You're right," he allowed. "You sound happy. So...good for you."  
  
"Thank you," she replied with only a little over-emphasis he knew well was intended to patronize him. He had become immune to it over the years, but she kept trying anyway. "I am. We're much better at living together than Jerry and I ever were, that's for sure."  
  
"What's it like?" Kurt ventured. "Being back together after decades apart?"  
  
He didn't know why he was asking. He had no intentions of getting back together with anyone he had known before - he didn't have any designs on dating anyone out here, period. Still, he was curious. Picking back up after so many years apart had to be awkward for anyone, with how much a person could change over that time. Even picking things back up with Rachel after each of her divorces had been stilted and uneasy as they had each developed new habits in the meantime, and those separations had been barely a year each time. Sixteen years was a  _lifetime_  - or at least half of one.  
  
"Lovely," she replied dreamily, then paused. "...why? Are you...?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're not thinking of getting back together with him, are you?"  
  
"Oh my god - absolutely not," he replied firmly with as much sincerity as he could possibly convey in five words. Not in a million years. "I don't even want to speak to him, let alone do anything else. Even seeing him makes me furious, that doesn't bode well for a relationship."  
  
"Did he age well?"  
  
"Why would you even ask that?"  
  
"I don't know, what do you want me to ask?"  
  
Kurt sighed, twisting the phone cord around his finger. "I don't know. And...yes? Maybe. His hairline and waistline are both in good shape, but I didn't exactly take an inventory."  
  
"Are you going to see him again?"  
  
"No," he replied firmly. "But I need a list of all the rotten things he did just in case I do."  
  
"Why?" Rachel asked, then realized and stifled a laugh. "Oh, Kurt..."  
  
"I already have his penchant to run away at the first sign of trouble. What else was there?"  
  
"I don't know, I didn't really keep track - it's been so long," she pointed out.  
  
"That's what I thought, too, but seeing him...it felt like no time had passed at all," he admitted quietly. "Everything felt just as fresh."  
  
"Do you need me out there so you can kiss me in front of him and make him jealous?"  
  
Kurt chuckled mirthlessly. "No - but thank you." It had been immature of him, he knew that, but it had been the only thing he could throw at the boy at that point.   
  
"I'm sorry, but that's really all I remember. I know he didn't tell you when he was going to California instead of New York, I remember things being really awkward at the spring formal and you both ignoring us, and that you kept trying to get him to come to dinner with my dad and his lover, but that's it."  
  
Kurt wished he could remember only that little, but everything else was  _there_ , even if he couldn't pick it apart to make a proper list. Or the parts he could felt too stupid to say out loud - or too mortifying, like the time Blaine had left him half-naked on the couch in the Commons.   
  
...and some of it had softened with time, too. Or mingled with memories like singing "Somewhere" to an auditorium full of people with Blaine beside him and feeling so proud and so completely in love-  
  
He would never finish his list if he kept dwelling on things like that.   
  
"I should go," he offered. "Long distance."  
  
'Right," Rachel replied.  
  
"Let me know how much the call was and I'll send you money for it. I know things are tight there with me here."  
  
"It isn't so bad with Jesse living here," she assured him. "But thank you."  
  
"I'll call you later and we'll talk more," he suggested.  
  
"Okay," she replied, and Kurt was about to hang up when she added, "And if you see him again? Maybe don't get stuck in being a teenager. Sometimes people change, and sometimes the grown-up versions are even sweeter than you remember."  
  
Somehow Kurt doubted it.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Blaine had to admit he wasn't sure how in the world he had managed to amass a genuine singing group in only two days. Even with phone trees, he would have thought only Wes would have been capable of it. He guessed a lot of former-acapella-group members didn't have day jobs and were really bored over the summer or something - or, if Ted's assessment was correct, they would follow their fearless former leader into the dark. He had tried to point out that he had never technically led the Warblers, but that seemed to be a moot point.  
  
Or maybe they just really believed in what he was doing. More than a few of them were romantics at heart and could appreciate a grand romantic gesture like this, even if it were between two men. If anyone would appreciate the public display, he just hoped the target would be among them.  
  
Of course he would, Blaine assured himself. Kurt loved larger-than-life theatrical displays of emotion, and he had practically begged for some kind of public acknowledgment back then. If anything in the world would be able to prove how different things were now - how different  _he_  was - wouldn't it be something they could never have done before?  
  
Besides, he needed to explain. He needed to not only apologize to the man he had hurt, but to try to offer some kind of-...not  _justification_  so much as...a window into his actions. To assure Kurt that he understood what he had done wrong but to try to tell things from his side at the same time. But so far, not only had Kurt not wanted to hear it, but Blaine hadn't been able to figure out the words to convey anything beyond "I'm sorry" and "I missed you" and maybe something about wishing he'd been as brave as Kurt back then. He just couldn't find the right thing to say.  
  
Finding the right thing to  _sing_ , on the other hand, had been surprisingly easy. It was perfect - the song said it all. If anyone would be able to understand that, he was sure it would be Kurt.  
  
Which meant now he just had to be sure the man showed up.  
  
"You're sure they're coming for a dress rehearsal?" He asked Ted, almost vibrating with nervous energy. He didn't get anxious about performing - if anything he found it eased his stress - but trying to impress someone he liked was another story. ...More than liked. Had loved and might still love. This wasn't helping. He bounced a couple times on the balls of his feet and tried to shake the stiffness out of his shoulders and arms. Maybe it had just been too long since he'd performed in general - it had been almost a decade now.  
  
When had that much time passed?  
  
Oh, god, what was he doing? This was insane - it wasn't some serenade by a bunch of college boys that would come across as adorable even if the target of the song didn't want to go out with the lead singer. This was trying to make up for 16 years of hurt feelings in approximately 3 minutes and 8 seconds of step-touching and harmonies and a potentially out-of-place cymbals player. This was a stupid idea, he never should have-  
  
"I know she and her manager are coming. I can't guarantee he'll be with them," Ted replied. "But in my experience, when there are wardrobe people, they come to dress rehearsals."  
  
"Yeah, because they have to make sure the costumes fit right and work under the lights and everything." Sam looked the least like Blaine remembered, and not just because he had filled out sometime after age 16 and had a much broader, squarer frame than he had as a young man. He looked at ease now, comfortable in himself instead of constantly troubled, relaxed instead of eternally frustrated. Being out of school had been good for him, Blaine guessed - they hadn't had time to catch up yet, so he didn't know what the man was doing, but he seemed happy with whatever it was. His grin was much easier now (though just as broad) than it had been back then, and even the way he moved was calmer - no more rushing from study session to class to the library and cursing himself for not being good enough.  
  
Maybe he wasn't the only one who had grown into himself, Blaine thought fondly. All this time he had felt like he alone had needed to escape the expectations heaped on him in Ohio, but he really hadn't been the only one...and neither had Kurt. Maybe the man would be able to see that - see how much things had changed, and he with them. He hoped so, anyway.  
  
Besides, if nothing else, he did owe Kurt an apology, and this was the best way he knew to convey everything he wanted to say. So even if the boy he had wronged so badly couldn't accept it, he could be secure in knowing that he had left everything out there on that stage. It might not really be a consolation, but it was the best he could guarantee for himself.  
  
Blaine nodded and drew in a deep breath to calm his fraying nerves. "Everybody, can you gather around for a few minutes?" he requested, glancing at his watch. They would be there any minute, but just standing and waiting was driving him out of his mind, and he really did want to express his appreciation to the group of guys standing with him. They were quite the assorted crew: a handful of recent Stanford graduates who had never actually met him before but had dropped everything (whatever that might have been) to help a fellow Mendicant; Sam and David and two Warblers who had been Freshmen when Sam was a Senior; Ted and Fitz and a man who had joined the spring before Blaine graduated so he kept forgetting his name - something with a J, like half the other auditionees that year; and standing behind the group of mostly clean-cut men who had at least at one time been rich enough for expensive schools was the grizzled smoking man Blaine had met on his way into the club the other day. The arrangement just hadn't worked without percussion, and a tambourine had sounded too silly, and claps had been too heavy-handed (no pun intended, though Sam had made one)...so Ted had suggested that among the many part-time musicians who worked there might be someone willing to play drums in the background. Apparently Stone - whose nickname would remain a source of mystery because Blaine wasn't sure he wanted to know - was the best-qualified man who objected the least. "I just wanted to say thank you again for being willing to come help me out with this. I really do appreciate-"  
  
He fell silent as the door swung open, sending a wide swath of too-bright sunlight across the entire room. He felt himself almost hold his breath as he saw Mercedes enter, talking animatedly with her manager. This was it - his one chance. If he didn't fix things now, he would lose the opportunity for at least another 16 years and probably forever. He needed to-  
  
The door swung closed behind the duo.  
  
Maybe- maybe this wasn't the end, he told himself. He bet if he talked to Mercedes, he could convince her to at least tell him where Kurt was staying and then he could call or arrange a time and place to meet or something. Just because the man wasn't here for dress rehearsal didn't mean- He breathed a sigh of relief as the door opened again and a tall, slim silhouette used his shoulder to shove the heavy wooden slab open wider as he maneuvered several garment bags and a heavy-looking train case inside.  
  
"What's going on?" Blaine heard the manager ask, but his eyes never left Kurt as the man carried everything to the table closest to the stage. He looked deep in concentration, like he was going over lists of everything he had to do and check and fix - he looked so cute when he was thinking - and even though Blaine knew he should respond, he couldn't. "We're supposed to be doing this - her schedule's very busy-"  
  
"Give them three minutes," the owner - Ted's friend - replied.  
  
"Three minutes for what?"  
  
"They're doing a thing, I dunno, just let 'em-"  
  
He kept waiting for Kurt to look up and see him and do something - recognize a pre-performance group or ask what was going on or glare at him and storm out, just  _something_  - but he was busily unpacking gowns. It was Mercedes who noticed them and nudged Kurt's arm. Kurt started to wave her off, but she nudged him again and said something, and then suddenly both their eyes were on him, one pair curious and the other...  
  
He wished he could read Kurt's expression better, but the combination of dark and passed time made it difficult. He knew arms crossing over the man's chest wasn't necessarily a gesture of hostility - usually from Kurt it was more like "I'm waiting, this better be good", and that was enough of an opportunity for him to take. He pulled the pitch pipe out of his pocket and turned to face the group, blowing their opening note before turning back to face Kurt. He heard Stone count out the tempo with his sticks before the makeshift gang began the  **[opening chords](http://youtu.be/bb4FMn-IWEY)**.  
  
 _Ba, ba-ba-ba, ba-ba, ba-ba-ba  
Ba, ba-ba ba ba_  
  
Kurt really hadn't been expecting Blaine to show up again - for one thing, the penchant for running away, but for another because he didn't recall his ex-boyfriend being a stalker. Seeing him at the center of the group onstage had been surreal enough, but when they began singing...were they 16 again? Had Blaine never aged past that point so he thought that singing acapella with a bunch of boys doo-wopping behind him was the way to spend an afternoon? Or was he trying to recreate their meeting somehow - and  _why_? To what end?   
  
...and why did he have to smile like that?  
  
 _I'm sleeping  
And right in the middle of a good dream  
Like all at once I wake up  
From something that keeps knocking at my brain_  
  
Despite being as charismatic and - okay, fine - as attractive as ever, the antics that had looked adorably quirky when they were teenagers step-touching in school uniforms now looked patently ridiculous. The way Blaine pantomimed knocking at his own head, or waking up with his hands opening up and stretching out his fingers seemed so silly coming from a man in his thirties. He had to cover his mouth to stop from giggling out loud.  
  
Still, Blaine's voice had aged even better than the rest of him. Almost two decades later and Kurt could pick that voice out anywhere.   
  
 _Before I go insane  
I hold my pillow to my head  
And spring up in my bed  
Screaming out the words I dread:_  
  
He tried to roll his eyes and ignore the display, to distract himself until it was over, but he couldn't manage it; Blaine's stage presence was just as magnetic as it had ever been, and in truth it was hard to ignore something that looked so absurd. The man playing drums looked like he'd ridden with the Hells Angels before coming to tap lightly on the cymbal with one stick while smoking with his free left hand. The singers ranged from probably about 25 to a year or two older than them, almost none of whom Kurt recognized - he thought the guy in the tight plaid western shirt and jeans with the oversized glasses and long blond hair might have been his former roommate, and he knew he knew at least one or two of the others but couldn't remember their names. He could just imagine how Blaine had assembled this group - probably with pleas to the men's love of music and those damned eager eyes of his.  
  
 _I think I love you_  
  
Kurt lost his battle against laughter as the group echoed the title line. The BeeGees they were not, and while  _he_  could have easily hit those notes, none of the ad hoc group before him did so well - but they were flat so  _eagerly_  that it still made him smile.  
  
Still, Blaine was the most eager of all, earnestly mugging and miming and trying to catch his eye like this was more than just a silly performance by someone who hadn't done this in awhile.  
  
 _I think I love you_  
  
Blaine understood why Kurt was laughing, even if that wasn't his intention - though it felt so good seeing him smile, he had such a great grin and his eyes lit up even in the darkened lounge. And an engaged audience, even one engaged in gentle mockery, was better than an audience actively trying to tune them out. But he needed Kurt to see his point, to hear him - really  _hear him_  - and understand. He threw himself into singing, trying to convey everything he'd felt - everything he could remember feeling, every he'd agonized over that whole year and for half a decade after.   
  
 _This morning  
I woke up with this feeling  
I didn't know how to deal with  
And so I just decided to myself  
I'd hide it to myself  
And never talk about it  
And didn't I go and shout it when you walked into the room:  
I think I love you_  
  
Kurt had to understand. He needed to know that it had just been terror - not lack of love, not cold and unfeeling apathy toward what they'd had together, but complete, paralyzing fear about what it meant to be so overwhelmed by feelings. He needed to see that there was nothing he could have done to stop things from ending the way they had - but that Blaine regretted every bit of it more deeply than he could possibly say.  
  
And maybe a song couldn't do all that. Maybe even music couldn't express  _everything_ , couldn't explain his father or the pressure or how it had taken jazz music to help him finally understand himself, but he had to try. He had to try something, after everything he had put Kurt through that year, and this was the best way he knew.  
  
The only way he knew, really. Which meant this really needed to work.  
  
 _I think I love you  
So what am I so afraid of?  
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of  
A love there is no cure for  
I think I love you  
Isn't that what life is made of?  
Thought it worries me to say  
That I've never felt this way_  
  
The further they got into the song, the harder it was for Kurt to ignore the queasy feeling that began to settle over him like a fog - slowly at first, so it was hard to notice, then so thick it obscured everything else in its path. The way Blaine sang was- sure, lovely, and overly-confident, but there was something more to it. It was all in the eyebrows, and Kurt almost chuckled to himself as the tell he hadn't thought of in decades came back to him suddenly. When Blaine sang and really felt something - not just playing along to the music, but really wanted to say something - he didn't just get all squinty; his eyebrows practically inverted, from triangles pointed toward his slicked-down hairline to arcs sloping from the top of the bridge of his nose down along his eyelash line and out toward his temples, as though he were trying so hard to convey what he needed to say that he couldn't focus any energy on keeping the points up.  
  
He looked that way when he was sad, too, Kurt remembered suddenly. The night he'd shown up in the rain and spent hours sitting in a puddle on the bathroom tile, they'd been practically concave V's pointing toward his welling tears.  
  
He shook his head to try to clear out the memory and focus again on the motley crew of grown men trying to recapture their lost youth. It was much easier to laugh at that part.  
  
 _I don't know what I'm up against  
I don't know what it's all about  
I've got so much to think about  
Hey-  
I think I love you  
So what am I so afraid of?  
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of  
A love there is no cure for_  
  
Did Kurt remember those days? Blaine wondered as he saw something in Kurt's face. Did the young man remember what it had been like back then, or was he so used to the way things were now that the pain of the old days had been numbed with age, the way he forgot how scared he had been back then of people finding out his father's heritage? Because even though Kurt had always been more secure in himself and what he wanted - a product of bravery and lack of understanding what their lot in life would surely have been - the raids had scared them both, men being picked up from movie theatres and bars and photos in the paper...if Kurt could remember those things, then maybe he could understand.   
  
Mostly Blaine just wished it weren't so dark in here so he could read the man's expression better. To see if his tale was being received in the way he hoped. Did Kurt understand what this was? Did he appreciate it in the way Blaine hoped he would? Or was he still irritated that they were in the same place at all?  
  
Though, on second thought, not being able to see him might be a plus. A dead-eyed lack of interest would destroy him right now; at least in the darkness he could let himself imagine that he saw engagement in the light reflected from Kurt's eyes.  
  
 _I think I love you  
Isn't that what life is made of?  
Though it worries me to say  
I never felt this way_  
  
No, he couldn't - the lack of eye contact and being able to sing directly  _to_  Kurt was driving him out of his mind. He hopped offstage, Mendicant serenade instincts taking over, and half-danced his way over to the table where Kurt was standing, arms crossed but eyes engaged - that was a good sign. And maybe at a closer distance he could make sure his point was made and received more clearly. He hoped so, anyway.  
  
 _Believe me  
You really don't have to worry  
I only wanna make you happy  
And if you say "Hey, go away!" I will  
But I think better still  
I better stay around and love you  
Do you think I have a case?  
Let me ask you to your face:  
Do you think you love me?_  
  
Kurt wasn't sure how Blaine coming closer sucked all the oxygen out of the room, but as soon as the man was nearby he felt like he couldn't breathe again. The harmonies faded away, the ridiculous acapella group and chain-smoking drummer melting into the background until it was just the two of them standing in the middle of an empty space, his former lover singing directly to him. It felt more like a conversation than a song, more question than display, and the tightness in his chest revealed more about his answer than he dared speak aloud.  
  
He had dreamed about a moment like this when they had been young and stupid, back when he thought New York was a gleaming paradise and true love could conquer something and he would have his own fashion house by his late 20s. Just two boys in love with a song between them and the rest of the world vanishing around them. Though he'd had glimpses of it, traces of the feeling of being too full of everything except oxygen, when they had sat on the bed in Blaine's dorm room with a record player and their own voices mingling with the divas to fill the space, it had been nothing like this - with a dozen or more witnesses and everything orchestrated by the man who, back then, had been too afraid to drive around in the country with him lest someone see them and talk.  
  
 _I think I love you_  
  
The music picked back up around them, and Blaine reluctantly broke eye contact as he danced his way back up onstage to finish the number. Kurt wondered how he could possibly sing so well when his own lungs could barely fill with enough oxygen to breathe, let alone belt out the declaration a half-dozen times. The song ended to sparse-but-enthusiastic applause from the tech guys. He felt his own hands clapping quickly of their own volition even as Mercedes' gaze bore into him. He knew he shouldn't, that he should be pulling the list of awful things Blaine had done out of his pocket and reading it to him as a reason to never see him again, but that grin just-  
  
He had always been powerless to resist Blaine when he sang.  
  
The rest of the group dispersed as Marvin grumbled about time and rushed Mercedes up to the stage to begin. It would be a long enough day without any other unplanned musical numbers. Kurt began to quickly finish setting up, hurrying even as his fingers fumbled with zippers on the garment bags. He really hoped they would stop soon or he wouldn't be able to thread a needle, let alone make any of the adjustments that were part of his job today. He was almost set up when he heard a voice beside him.  
  
"What did you think?"  
  
Not everything had changed; Blaine was just as desperate for approval as ever. Still, he had to give credit where it was due. "I thought the drummer was an inspired choice," he replied dryly with a faint smile, and Blaine laughed. He seemed nervous, which wasn't helping Kurt feel any more together.  
  
"Do you think we could go get a cup of coffee sometime? I just want to...apologize. And catch up - see what you're up to. Obviously this for Mercedes, but everything else."  
  
He wanted to say no. He planned to say no. But somehow what came out of his mouth was, "Coffee sounds fine."  
  
Even if he had wanted to take it back, the beaming grin on Blaine's face would have stopped him. But it was fine - it was just coffee. No big deal.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard R/NSFW this chapter.
> 
> The 70s were a good time for some stuff but not the best time for safety. Tipsy driving is bad, condoms are good, and the best lube is lube.

Kurt wasn't keeping track, but he was pretty sure this was the eighth time he had talked himself out of going tonight.   
  
"You know what? I think I should stay here and work on your gown for the showcase. I had planned on using the black, but after seeing it under the light I really think the royal blue would show up so much better because the club is so dark." Mercedes didn't look like she believed him - even though he really was reconsidering her wardrobe for the performance. And if he changed the gowns he had planned on, then he had at least a few days' worth of work to perfect the replacements. It wasn't just some flimsy excuse. It was a well-rationalized excuse. Not that that changed the deadpan 'are you kidding me?' look he'd learned to recognize at age 8.   
  
"If you don't want to go see him, why did you agree to go on a date?"   
  
"It's not a date," he stated firmly. He would never have agreed to go on a date with the man, of that he was absolutely certain. "It's coffee and catching up. By which he better mean a host of apologies or it's going to be a very short catch-up."   
  
"You'll walk out if his first words aren't 'I'm sorry for ruining things literally half our lifetime ago'?" she asked skeptically.   
  
Kurt wanted to say yes - he wanted to make plain from the outset that he was doing this as a favour after Blaine's performance, that this was not some sign that the man had won him back somehow through the power of some stupid (and kind of cute) song. He needed to be crystal clear on that this was to let Blaine clear his conscience and nothing more.  
  
...And yet somehow he couldn't quite get his mouth to form the word. He let a tilt of his head and a slight roll of his eyes suffice instead. "Look, I don't know much about what you two had or didn't have," she stated diplomatically, which was true. Even Rachel only knew highlights and the deepest darkest moments, and that was because he had been able to trust her about his secret back then. Mercedes had grown more accepting over time, and even if she didn't want nearly as many details as his roommate usually did...it did seem like a bigger deal to be able to talk to her about this than he had thought when the evening began. A couple decades had made all the difference in the world, it seemed. "But if you agreed to go, there has to be a reason - and not just because you like a good musical number. I know you want your life to be a Broadway show sometimes-"   
  
"Most of the time," Kurt interjected dryly.   
  
"-but things don't happen out of nowhere."   
  
Kurt sighed- he would never see the world the way she did, full of platitudes about things happening for a reason thanks to some allegedly-benevolent, allegedly-omnipotent invisible man in the sky. He tried to avoid conversations about it as much as he could, if only because he wasn't sure he wanted to think about what her answer would be when he shot back with his first and most burning question: what reason could there be for his mother dying when he was little? Sure, plenty of good things in his life had happened since then, and he liked to think he appreciated them well enough - more than Rachel appreciated her good things, he was sure of that. But any god who stole a little boy's favourite person in the world away from him wasn't a god Kurt had any interest in knowing.   
  
For that matter, if he were to really get on that subject, there were plenty of other episodes he would have to ask about. He knew the reason he'd been arrested so many times - because the police squads were full of homophobes who, at the time, had the bigoted law on their side. That wasn't a divine reason - it was a human one. He knew why Blaine had run away - because of fear, a human emotion, that drove a boy's actions. That didn't mean he wasn't angry or hurt, though when he broke it down into emotional cause and effect that way it was harder to feel quite the same sting of betrayal.   
  
"Sometimes they do," he replied with a shrug as he pulled another shirt out of his closet and held it up in front of the mirror. Nothing seemed right for an occasion such as this - maybe because he still wasn't sure what exactly this  _was_. He didn't have a wardrobe plan for "coffee with the boy I've been getting over for 20 years." Should he play it more like a clear sign that this was a platonic evening at best - something that no one in the world would consider a sexy ensemble - or more like when they had deliberately gone out in search of one of Ricky's ex-flings, when his best friend had worn the tightest, showiest clothes he could get his hands on to show the moron what he was missing out on?   
  
He wanted a jacket - he knew just the one, too, structured and cinched in a way that covered everything but sculpted his torso the way he wanted - but this wasn't New York in autumn. He might not know the best way to handle tonight, but he was sure heat stroke wouldn't be it. With a roll of his eyes he hung the shirt back up and pulled out his best-fitting pair of jeans. If he was going to project any kind of confidence, he should probably feel at least a little bit of it. Knowing he looked fantastic could only help. After all, Blaine could have had him. He should kick himself for that, right?   
  
"Maybe closure will help you both," Mercedes offered gently. "Let him get everything he needs to off his chest, then you follow, and you can leave as lighter people."   
  
"It's been almost twenty years-"   
  
"And clearly that hasn't been enough for you to be over it because you're worried about what outfit to wear for him." He turned to say something, crossing his arms across his robe-covered chest, but before he could protest, she added, "Don't expect too much. Just...both of you let go what you need to let go of. And let me know how the coffee is because I haven't found a place I like yet."   
  
"I know - it's been so long since I had to look for somewhere new...the place on the corner by the apartment has been there since a couple years after we moved in, it opened even before Lincoln Center did." He missed the place where his order was waiting for him at the counter before he even paid because they could see him coming through the plate glass windows, where it always smelled like rich cocoa and roasted coffee beans - and it tasted better. For how much attention they paid to that stuff out here, he didn't know why he didn't like it more. Maybe it was that the water didn't taste nearly as good as in New York. Either way, it was another little thing added to the list of stupid parts of Manhattan he missed.   
  
"I remember," Mercedes nodded, laying back on the bed. "When I was still living there - before I got the first place up on 130th."   
  
"Do you miss it there?" he asked as he grabbed a well-fitting button-down shirt and popped around the corner into the bathroom to get dressed.   
  
"Not the way you do," she called.   
  
"How do you-"   
  
"It's home for you. I've only been there off and on for awhile," she pointed out. There was a pause, then she added, "But I'm glad you're out here with me. It's a lot more fun sharing all this craziness with you than it would be with anyone else."   
  
"I'm glad I'm here," he replied sincerely - because even as he missed the coffee shop and the sound of the taxis and the tight vertical city, and even though right now a part of him wished he'd stayed back home and not opened up this pandora's box of old romance...it was more interesting than another too-hot summer stinking of garbage on every street corner and taking the ferry to Fire Island every weekend.   
  
Maybe there really was a reason he'd come out here. Maybe a summer off from Manhattan, gaining new inspiration, would help him get a better job when he went back. And maybe this coffee date-  _evening_  he corrected himself - maybe this meeting would help him close the door on a painful part of his youth so he could move on.   
  
Or at least he could try.   
  
He pulled on his clothes and set to fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror as he heard Mercedes call, "...So how are you getting there?"   
  
"The car the label gave us to use," he replied with a shrug.   
  
There was a long pause, then a question he hadn't expected. "When's the last time you drove?"   
  
* * * * *   
  
Blaine checked his watch and frowned. He was early - he hadn't meant to be, but sitting around the apartment was driving him crazy so he had started getting ready. Even changing shirts twice and spending more time than usual trying to get his hair to lay perfectly, he still stood in front of the coffee shop with more than twenty minutes to spare. He shifted from one foot to the other; at home he would have known somewhere to pop into to pass the time - a bookstore or a record shop or a cheeky novelty shop. Looking up and down the street he saw only eateries, nothing he could use for a diversion. And aside from the directions by bus to two nightclubs and a bar he had scribbled down on the back of an envelope and slipped into his pocket in case he wanted to do something later, he wasn't sure how to get anywhere from this part of town.  
  
He may as well get settled inside, he supposed. Get something to drink, pick the perfect table so they could talk without being disturbed...  
  
...figure out what in the world he was going to say...  
  
It wasn't for lack of thought or effort that he didn't have anything planned. he had tried a thousand different apologies and explanations out in his head, but none of them seemed  _right_. They were all too stiff or too much or just...pathetic-sounding. And even trying to come up with something made him feel- he wasn't sure how to put it into words, exactly, but  _young_. Seventeen again and scared of everything and desperate for Kurt's approval.  
  
He was an adult now, Blaine reminded himself as he drew in a calming breath. A grown man with a career he loved and an apartment of his own and a string of ex-boyfriends. There was no reason he needed to feel like he had to be afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. Under the worst case scenario, this would be an awkward evening and they would be too different and part ways and not try again - it wasn't exactly the end of the world. Considering until a few days ago he hadn't expected to even  _see_  Kurt ever again, it wasn't as though he had anything to lose from having a lousy date.  
  
So why did the thought of not seeing Kurt again after tonight make his throat clench so tightly?  
  
He drew in another breath and pulled open the door. he could do this - he just had to relax. Be himself - the self he was now.  
  
Singing had been a much easier option...  
  
He ordered himself a coffee and selected a table in the front corner - close to the window so he could easily see when Kurt arrived but far enough from the counter that they would be able to hear each other. Then he settled in to wait.  
  
And wait.  
  
The 15 minutes he sat before 7:00 were nothing compared to the 5 minutes he sat after 7. Let alone the 5 minutes after that.   
  
Kurt wasn't coming. he'd chickened out - or been too angry to sit across the table for an hour. This had been a horrible idea, a stupid, naive, self-indulgent attempt to recreate something he'd thrown away half a lifetime ago. He should just go home and-  
  
A slender brunet rushed past the front window and shoved open the door, eyes darting around. He looked harried and rushed, almost frantic, hair mussed just a little, and when their gaze met Kurt looked- oh thank god, he looked  _relieved_. Blaine released his own sigh of relief at that; this hadn't been as dumb of an idea as he had feared. The man wove his way through the tables and set his bag on the chair across from Blaine.   
  
"I was afraid I was too late and you might have left."  
  
"Is everything okay?"  
  
"Yes. I just hadn't driven since I lived in a much flatter place." Blaine was about to ask what that had to do with anything, but he couldn't help but laugh at Kurt's expression as he tried - and failed - to look too proud to be embarrassed. Twenty years and Kurt still held his head high to pretend nothing could make him sweat.  
  
"Not many hills in New York?" he asked, barely covering a chuckle.  
  
"Who drives in New York?" Kurt retorted dismissively. "So it's been a little while."  
  
Blaine smiled, glad for the topic to help put them a little at ease - the distraction from two decades of history was a welcome one. "Go get something to drink, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Kurt nodded and smoothed the top of his bag for a moment, as though making sure Blaine saw it and asking whether it would be fine to leave it, then made his way to the counter. He let out a long sigh as he stared at the menu board; the adrenaline was beginning to subside now that he was here, leaving him anxious and with nothing to say. Why  _had_  he come, anyway? He had no idea what he was going to say once he sat down, coffee in hand. Mercedes had made it pretty clear that demanding an apology wouldn't go over well - and he had to admit, it was ruder than he would have liked, but if they weren't here to talk about what Blaine had done wrong, then he really had no idea what they  _would_  talk about instead.   
  
He ordered and paid, then glanced over his shoulder as he slipped the change into his pocket. Did Blaine look like he was about to apologize? (How did that look, exactly? Kurt wasn't sure but felt like he might know it if he saw it.)  
  
...He looked nervous, anyway, Kurt concluded. And surprisingly good in that shade of green - it was lighter than he himself would have ever worn, but it didn't emphasize the yellowy olivey undertones of Blaine's skin the way he would have expected. Maybe it was the lighting -  
  
Analyzing the man's clothing wouldn't leave them with much more to talk about than his driving misadventure, but he couldn't help it. It was a nervous habit he'd had for as long as he could remember, one that his choice of profession happened to encourage.  
  
...The shirt hugged his biceps really nicely. It looked almost tight on his shoulders, which might not have been comfortable but did emphasize their width, and-  
  
Kurt tore his gaze away and stared stonily forward at the space just to the left of the menu board. After a few minutes a ceramic mug was pressed into his palm, and he blinked down at the beverage, disappointed that it meant he needed to return to his table.  
  
 _Let Blaine lead_  he reminded himself.  _Let him say what he came to say - hopefully with a strong 'I'm sorry' - and then take it from there._  
  
Forcing a faint smile, he wove through the chairs with his brim-filled mug and slipped into his seat, nudging his bag to the floor. "There we go." He expected Blaine to fill the silence with something - small talk - but no sound came. He looked across the table and was met with an almost painfully nervous expression from his companion.   
  
Great. It was going to be that kind of meeting.   
  
"What did you get?" he pressed. If he were going to stay, he wasn't going to just sit across someone for an hour who seemed to have lost the power of speech.  
  
"What? Oh - just coffee. What's yours?"  
  
"Cappuccino. There's this amazing little bakery around the corner from home that makes the best I've ever had - it's run by this 800-year-old Italian man who personally learned from the man who invented them or something..." Kurt took a sip, thought a moment, and shrugged. "Not bad."  
  
"Good," Blaine replied awkwardly, wearing a stiff grin, and then the silence was back. After a few long moments of fiddling with the rim of his cup, he finally offered a hesitant, "Thank you for coming. I really was worried you wouldn't show up."  
  
"I almost didn't," Kurt admitted. Part of him wanted to explain why - to make sure Blaine was crystal clear about why he wasn't thrilled about this reunion, to be absolutely certain that Blaine didn't think years had numbed all the pain he had caused. But when it came time to say something, he wasn't sure how. Even in his own head it sounded pathetic and juvenile. What would he actually say? 'I almost didn't come after promising I would because I wanted to hold your apology for ransom?' That wasn't exactly becoming on a man of his age. 'I thought about leaving you sitting here like you left me sitting on a couch half-naked when we were teenagers?' Even putting his frustration into concrete thoughts made him feel petty beyond reason, and the thought of saying them out loud left him queasy.   
  
Had he really not aged past 17 despite all his efforts? Was he really stuck as a child?  
  
This had been exactly what Rachel had tried to warn him against, he realized suddenly. Not staying a teenager when he met Blaine - letting himself be an adult in a room with another adult instead of a hurt kid across from the scared little boy who had hurt him.   
  
The man sitting across the table bore little resemblance to the boy he remembered. Physically he had aged well enough, Kurt supposed: his hair was still so firmly slicked it was practically plastic; he looked more muscular now, though Kurt guessed part of that might also be that he wasn't wearing a boxy navy blue blazer and ill-fitting grey wool-blend trousers. But his eyes were different in a way Kurt couldn't quite put his finger on. Engaged but focused rather than frantic. He hadn't realized he always pictured Blaine desperately looking around for trouble - it was a caricature, he supposed, but one that had stuck in his mind all these years even though it probably wasn't completely accurate. The man slouched a little more than the boy had, too, not enough to look sloppy but enough to seem relaxed in his own chair...in his own skin, really. He fidgeted slightly instead of simply sitting straighter-  
  
Practically nothing he remembered of his first love remained, he realized slowly. Instead Kurt saw someone who, while clearly nervous, hadn't glanced around to see who could see them in public even once. He hadn't tried to hide his smile and relief at having a table mate, he wasn't-  
  
Kurt didn't even have to look at Blaine's hand; he wasn't married. He couldn't be; he wasn't  _scared_  anymore. Back then, even in the dark away from everyone who might ever know them, Blaine had still been afraid; every moment Kurt could remember between them, save a few brief seconds where, alone in Blaine's dorm room, he could see the fear dissipate, the walls drop, and genuine love take its place. He had clung to those moments back then, used them to reassure himself that they could build a future together, that someday Blaine would let him in, would let himself be-  
  
"You look good," he admitted quietly.   
  
Blaine's eyes widened just a bit in surprise, and he grinned - beamed, really. "Thanks. You look... _amazing_. New York agrees with you."  
  
A voice in the back of his head retorted with 'It could have agreed with you, too,' but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't actually want to say it. Clearly whatever Blaine was doing did agree with him.  
  
Part of him didn't want it to. Part of him wanted Blaine to have been as miserable as he had been for years, wanted just desserts from it; after so many years, he couldn't turn it off. But sitting across from a man who seemed to have himself relatively together, who wasn't in a miserable sham of a marriage, who wasn't trying to force himself to not be gay...in a way it felt impossible to reconcile the two together. The Blaine in his head, who had yanked him back and forth for a year before abandoning him without warning, wasn't even present in the Blaine he saw now; hating him and resenting his ease felt as illogical as automatically liking any man he met named Don simply because he was fond of one.  
  
The way Blaine looked at him made him feel warm - and flattered. His eyes were intense, almost  _adoring_ , in a way Kurt hadn't seen in- he didn't even know how long anymore. At least not directed at him. Don looked at John that way sometimes...a lot of the time, actually. At first Kurt had always taken it as his cue to get out of the apartment as quickly as he could, figuring they needed to be alone, but over the years he had realized the look had virtually nothing to do with who was getting off and when. It was so much more than that. It was...everything.  
  
He had two choices, he realized: he could stay angry and bitter and keep the high ground, walk away and never come back...or he could let himself revel in the way an attractive man - who was practically a stranger anyway - was looking at him over a cup of coffee.  
  
When he put it like that, it was kind of hard to demand an apology.  
  
"So, Blaine," Kurt began, sitting up a little straighter and crossing his legs at the knee as he set down his mug and dragged his finger slowly over the handle. "What do you do?"  
  
Blaine's eyes narrowed a little as he seemed to be trying to figure out what Kurt was getting at, and Kurt wasn't sure he understood the confusion. They had only said about ten words to one another, if he didn't count the song (which he was trying not to) since reuniting, and even if he could think of this Blaine as the same Blaine he had dated once, he didn't actually know anything about...well, what had become of either one of them. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Do you work at the club full-time, or...?"  
  
"Oh! No, I teach music."  
  
That wasn't hard to picture, Kurt thought to himself with a faint smile. If there were one thing the guy had always loved, it had been a good song, and he was a natural-born leader. Even with a formal council, he had always been the one the Warblers looked to. "Around here?"  
  
"No, in San Francisco. I'm just down here for the summer."  
  
Kurt almost choked on his drink. " _You_  live in San Francisco?" After running away from plans to live in New York because there would be too many homosexuals around, he had moved to the single gayest city on the planet?   
  
"Is that strange?" Blaine asked, confused.  
  
...It was strange for the boy he had known, Kurt reminded himself, but not for anyone who was as open as the man across from him. Maybe the city was what had brought him into himself. Maybe he'd moved to the closest teaching job after Stanford - that was close, right? He wasn't actually sure where the school was except somewhere very far from New York - and found men the same way he had in the Village. Or maybe he'd moved there after a miserable marriage fell apart, because 17 years was plenty of time for a homosexual to marry and divorce again. Hell, seventeen years was plenty of time for a man to become a hippie and go back to having plastered down hair. However Blaine had gotten there, San Francisco had certainly done something good for him. "I guess not. It agrees with you," he replied, and Blaine smiled faintly at the use of his phrase repeated back.   
  
"Not always," he replied cryptically, then added, "What about you? What do you do when you're not making gowns for Mercedes?"  
  
"Make gowns for ballroom queens," Kurt replied, and when Blaine looked perplexed but like he wasn't sure how to ask the follow-up question, he supplied, "I was a designer at a painfully out-of-touch studio, but I quit to come do Mercedes' wardrobe."  
  
"And the ballroom queens...?"  
  
"A hobby," he replied, but he couldn't help but grin at the thought of his band of friends back home. "Ricky got me into it - it helps to have a muse who can pull off practically everything and never says anything is too much. Aren't there balls out here?" That was a thought too depressing for words. As much as he liked the occasional bar with Don and John or could enjoy a nightclub with the right dance partners, he hated to imagine a world without a place he and his best friend could be kings.  
  
"I don't think so - I don't know, actually," Blaine replied, though he looked bothered by something. Kurt wasn't sure what and didn't know how to press for more, so he let it drop. "I haven't been out around here very much."  
  
"Me neither," Kurt admitted. "It's not exactly fun by yourself - just standing awkwardly by the wall, watching men strut around..."  
  
"...and look at you like you're the last guy on earth they'd sleep with?" Blaine supplied knowingly, which made Kurt smile - even if he did wonder how the man sitting across from him couldn't get his fair share of men. He wasn't so fey after all.  
  
"So you've met them too," Kurt replied.   
  
"It's not like that in San Francisco. Home has its own problems, but at least they're not all models, you know?"  
  
"In New York a lot of them are," Kurt shrugged. "And chorus boys and professional dancers who can kick their legs in all sorts of places. I don't go out to cruise often anyway. Don and John do, they do  _very_  well for themselves. I'd rather spend the night watching my creations walk the catwalk...and chasing after Ricky to keep him from stepping on his hems because if he ruins one more I swear - miniskirts from now on." Fuck he missed him - the whole group of them, but his best friend in particular. Maybe he could fly him out for a weekend. That way he could actually show Ricky everything he kept turning to point out to him when he wandered around town. If there were a ball scene out here, Ricky would find it - he had a gift for that, like a pig hunting truffles or Lana always picking out the one fellow homosexual in a restaurant full of identically-dressed businessmen.   
  
And it would be nice to have a creative outlet where he knew his sequins wouldn't be sneered at. Working for Mercedes was much better than his old job, if only for the pleasure of her company, but without somewhere to let it all hang out at night it still didn't feel nearly like he'd imagined.  
  
He didn't want to let himself get dragged into the morose, especially since Blaine already looked a little confused and bored - or something else maybe, Kurt couldn't put his finger on what exactly - so he forced a smile and sat up taller. "Enough about that. What ages do you teach?"  
  
From the way Blaine's face lit up at the mention of his students, Kurt could tell it was definitely a positive part of the man's life.   
  
And that the smile he'd fallen for all those years ago still had an effect on him.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt giggled as his hand fumbled with his key, jamming it against the outside of the lock twice before finally shoving it inside and twisting to open the door. He'd been trying to stop laughing since they'd left the bar, but it seemed like every time he managed something else would go mildly wrong and set them both off again.  
  
Of course, getting the car stuck on each and every hill and turn in the city had been the sort of situation they could either curse or laugh at, and a certain point it was just so absurd that they  _had_  to find it funny. Especially when Blaine tried to suggest he could do better and promptly rolled them backwards down the hill because he let the clutch go too early.  
  
He wished he could blame it on the drinks, but they hadn't had many at all. He'd only had two - not even, he'd left his second drink unfinished on the bar as they left - and Blaine had barely finished one beer. He wasn't even sure how it had started; they'd left the coffee shop as it closed for the bar Blaine had gotten the name of from an old friend, and sometime during the first half of his first drink their easy chatter had turned into an emphatic send-up of movie heroines. By the time they got to Kurt's description of how he would have made Carol Burnett's costumes even better - the curtain dress needed a valance. The hat was brilliant, but a valance would have made it perfect - Blaine had been unable to stop grinning and was practically leaning off his stool toward him, hand firmly on Kurt's arm.  
  
...it felt so nice that naturally he wanted to keep Blaine amused.  
  
He had fully planned on taking Blaine back to wherever it was he was staying, but Blaine had suggested that they could keep talking awhile longer - and Kurt's place had room service, which was an obvious plus.   
  
They both knew it was an excuse, or at least Kurt assumed they did. Unless Blaine had lived under a rock in San Francisco, he knew that coming back to someone's place to talk at the end of a good date meant exactly one thing. Hell, in New York it practically meant a serious relationship to go home together and not just to the baths.   
  
(He just preferred something a little cleaner. Plus the room service tab.)  
  
All night he'd felt Blaine watching him - every time he moved, he leaned back, he took a long sip of his drink, he fixed his collar, the man's gaze bore into him as though he physically couldn't look away. And every time he glanced up to check if it was all in his imagination, the look on Blaine's face was so  _enamored_  of him... Who wouldn't invite a man who looked at him like that up to his place? Even a stranger -  _especially_  a stranger, particularly someone so handsome.  
  
..it helped that he'd really missed that smile. But that wasn't why. It was because it had just been too damn long.  
  
Blaine closed the door behind them and barely got out the words "So this is your-" before Kurt turned to kiss him hard. It took the man a few seconds to shake off the fog of being startled and respond, wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist and pulling him closer.   
  
Blaine kissed exactly like Kurt would have expected him to had they met for the first time tonight - eagerly, but more adoring than the pure primal need he was used to associating with non-boyfriend sex. He tried to decide if it felt different than he remembered, but he couldn't; he honestly wasn't sure what he remembered anymore. In fairness to them both, he decided to assume this was better if only because he liked to think his own technique had improved over 15 years, but-  
  
The hand grasping his ass made him stop thinking much of anything.  
  
He groaned as Blaine’s hand pressed him closer, and the little pleased gasp coming from the shorter man was surprisingly both hot and adorable – and definitely encouraging. Reaching down, his fingers “unintentionally” grazed the front of Blaine’s pants, eliciting a low moan, before they moved to cup the man’s ass. Round, firm – it had been awhile since he’d seen a guy with a really great butt like this. In New York it seemed to be in vogue to just wear jeans that gave the illusion of one, but Blaine’s fit perfectly in his hand, just right to squeeze-  
  
Blaine tugged him closer still, and Kurt moaned against his lips at the friction. He shifted, resulting in a moan from his partner, who in turn rocked against him more deliberately.  
  
Was he really doing this? Had his night gone so strangely – and was he actually so desperate – that he was dry-humping his exboyfriend against a hotel room door?   
  
Not really his exboyfriend, Kurt reminded himself. A handsome first date who looked at him like he was the only guy in the room. _That_  man he would absolutely dry-hump anywhere they pleased.  
  
But a mattress would always be preferable to a door.  
  
Kurt reached up to grasp Blaine’s collar as he pulled back, and Blaine whimpered, lips trying to follow his as though he were that scared that letting go meant this was over. “C’mon,” he panted roughly, stepping backward to try to get out of the entryway and to the bed that he swore hadn’t been this far away when he’d left earlier. It took his companion a second to catch on, but once he did he scampered after Kurt eagerly, grinning and toeing off his shoes clumsily along the way. Kurt followed suit, trying to shed what he could before horizontal positioning made it much more difficult. His right shoe came first, then his belt. He reluctantly released Blaine’s collar so he could unfasten his buttons while he struggled to nudge off his left shoe, and he was glad to see the man’s first response was to yank off his polo shirt and drape it automatically over the back of the chair. So many guys just pooled everything on the floor and didn’t care if they looked like a rumpled mess in the morning, a homeless guy in expensive shoes; he liked Blaine’s idea better.  
  
…Speaking of things he liked about Blaine.  
  
The shirt had been flattering on him, but it wasn’t the sort of garment that could be considered false advertising – the man’s naked torso was just as enticing. Hairier than Kurt had expected, but not otter-like – not otter anyway, he was too short; had they ever managed to come up with a good word for that body type, anyway? Bears were obvious, cubs, but after that things got a little murkier. Blaine definitely took at least decent care of himself; his stomach was trim enough for a man who was no longer 20, his shoulders and biceps clearly well-worked, veins prominent in a way that was more sexy than creepy (not like one guy he’d made out with once, some friend of an ex-stud of John, who had taken off his shirt and looked like he was covered in purple-blue spiderwebs or something).   
  
He flicked open the bottom button and paused, feeling Blaine’s eyes boring into him. He glanced up again and saw intense golden-brown admiration, and he had to admit it made him stand a little taller as he shrugged off his shirt.   
  
“God, Kurt…” Blaine murmured, and Kurt felt like he shouldn’t admit that he smirked as he preened, but he wasn’t sure he could deny it. It didn’t matter anyway; in seconds, his mouth was covered as Blaine practically tackled him onto the bed, kissing him hard and needily, like a man desperate for oxygen and trying to suck breath out of the first living thing he’d seen in days. Kurt groaned, letting his lips fall open as he arched beneath the man. He reached up to try to grasp Blaine's hair but found a handful of slicked-down mess instead.  
  
Maybe not everything had changed.  
  
He tore himself away from that thought as quickly as he could. The last thing he needed to do was compare this to anything that had happened when they were kids, or he'd start to wonder if he'd end up naked and alone as Blaine bolted when things were over.  
  
(Not likely, he assured himself. Blaine was way too into this and definitely knew what he was doing; this wasn't his first rodeo.)  
  
He settled for cupping the back of Blaine's neck instead, pulling his mouth toward him. His date tasted like strong, dark coffee with an undernote of peppermint - manly but clean. Not quite as nice as the pastry chef he had dated awhile who spent most of the day testing the flavour and texture of assorted sweets and chocolates so their end-of-the-day kisses always tasted like a confectionary, but a lot better than...well, any of the one-night-stands he could remember.   
  
Blaine's knee slipped between his, nudging his legs apart; Kurt spread them gladly and moaned as Blaine settled his weight between them, hard-ons pressed firmly against one another and shifting with every movement. With a faint smirk against Blaine's lips, he wrapped his leg around Blaine's and used the leverage to rock up against him, eliciting a gasp and a needy moan from the older man. He felt Blaine's fingers at his waistband, then huffs of frustration as he tried to flick open the button only to find it wedged between layers of stiff denim. Kurt took advantage of the moment and reached down to lower Blaine's zipper, slipping his hand inside. The erection inside was thicker than he'd felt in quite awhile, and he groaned, practically drooling at the thought of it - even if he did wish he'd thought to work himself over a little before the date. If he'd had any idea how the night would end...  
  
With a victorious "Ha!" (or maybe "Aha!", Kurt couldn't tell), Blaine flicked the button open and unzipped the front of Kurt's jeans, wasting no time in trying to remove any extra layers of fabric between the two of them. Kurt sat up halfway and shimmied out of of his pants, letting the fabric pool between Blaine's feet and the edge of the bed, not caring what they might look like in the morning. Denim would be fine anyway - and even if it wouldn't, he had more important things on his mind.  
  
Reaching up and behind his head, Kurt fumbled blindly to find the nightstand and tug open the first drawer. He had to twist a little to reach the little jar of vaseline, but with a grunt of frustration and minor exertion, he retrieved it and set it on top of the nightstand.  
  
"Vaseline? Really?" Blaine laughed, out of breath but grinning as he settled them back into position.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Does anyone still use that?"  
  
"It's a little awkward keeping a tub of Crisco in a drawer someone else might wander into," Kurt pointed out. Mercedes wouldn't ask about a medical product; shortening would raise eyebrows at best, questions at worst, and he really didn't need to explain that part of gay sex to her if she didn't already know (which he assumed she didn't). Besides, he had a hard time using the same thing on himself that he did to make a nice flaky pie crust, and he would just as soon avoid the mental block if he could. "It does the job."  
  
"I'm glad to hear it..." Blaine replied. His hand crept lower again, cupping Kurt's cock for a moment before sliding lower, index finger skimming along the space behind his balls and pressing gently at his entrance.  
  
"Hang on," Kurt groaned as he rolled onto his stomach to give better access - it worked better than trying to reach through a tangled mess of limbs, he knew from experience; otherwise it seemed like someone was bound to get kneed in the face or the side or something unless they paid attention, and he couldn't guarantee that as badly as they both wanted. There was silence for a moment, sudden stillness, and he glanced over his shoulder to see what Blaine was doing.  
  
He was just staring -  _gazing_ , really, admiring. After a long moment, he blinked and reached over to unscrew the lid and scoop the jelly onto his fingers. He rubbed them together as though checking the texture and slickness, then nodded and settled between Kurt's legs.  
  
They didn't let prep take very long; by the second finger, Kurt was ready to demand 'just get it in me already!', and he could tell from the increased moaning with each kiss Blaine planted on his back as well as the persistent erection bobbing against his thigh that Blaine couldn't wait much longer than he could. "C'mon," he groaned as he raised up on his knees and settled into position. "Let's-"   
  
He had no idea what he was going to say to complete the sentence, and it didn't matter because the word fell from his lips in an incoherent groan anyway as Blaine pressed inside. The thickness was just this side of too much - Kurt had no idea how he'd managed more in the past, and the idea of fisting seemed like a cruel joke instead of anything pleasurable no matter what other guys said. But  _fuck_  did it feel good, so many parts of him pressed against another person, inside and out. The way Blaine grasped his hip with one hand and wrapped the other around him to stroke in time with his thrusts was a nice touch; he didn't think he could remember another guy doing that, usually everyone was just out for their own pleasure at a time like this.   
  
They lasted long enough to be good but not so long as to be bored - Kurt had known a guy once who could go forever, which had sounded fantastic but in reality meant a  _lot_  of repetitive thrusting before there was any payoff. He laid forward, turning onto his side and shifting to avoid the wet spot, and Blaine flopped down beside him a moment later panting and beaming. After a second to catch his breath, he leaned in and kissed Kurt long and slow, cupping his face, and Kurt couldn't help but think for a moment:  
  
If things had been like this, if  _Blaine_  had been like this, it all could have been so different...  
  
He could already feel sleep pulling at the edges of his mind - orgasms always knocked him out pretty quickly - and he was grateful. The sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he didn't have to think about anything.


	8. Chapter 8

Before Blaine opened his eyes, it took him a few moments to figure out what on earth he might see when he did. The bed felt stiff beneath him - a firmer mattress than at home, much firmer than the one in his temporary apartment, and as he shifted there was a bit of a squeak. Not enough to wake a person, just enough to notice really. The sheet wasn't as soft as he was used to, either, definitely a lower thread count, more toothsome across his-...across his bare thigh.  
  
Which meant the warmth radiating against his back wasn't coming from the early morning sun, was it?   
  
His heart leapt - it  _hadn't_  been a dream. The images of Kurt gazing up at him from beneath heavy eyelids and tousled brown hair, the sensation of his old flame's otherworldly-soft skin beneath his palm, the sounds- He'd had those dreams forever, it felt like, for as long as he could remember, but never before had there been even a chance they had actually  _happened_. He stretched slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake the other man in his bed, and he stifled a quiet groan at the stretch, the familiar combination of exerted and lazy muscles that always signalled a good time the night before. He had definitely had sex last night. And judging from the lack of memory to the contrary-  
  
He opened his eyes, unable to stop the silly grin from creeping across his face. God, he'd dreamed about - fantasized about, wondered about - having sex with his first love for so many years. For decades he'd regretted not going further, not being able to go beyond a hurried jerk of his hand, and he'd wondered what things might have been like if he could have brought himself to do  _this_.  
  
And he'd been given a second chance.  
  
Blaine rolled over carefully, cringing each time the bed moved beneath him; he didn't want to disturb the man sleeping beside him - not yet, anyway. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he released it slowly as he settled onto his other side, face-to-face with the man he had loved for...had he  _ever_  not loved this man?  Kurt looked so peaceful when he slept, mouth open just a tiny bit, jaw relaxed, nothing like he carried himself the rest of the time. He wasn't all tense and constantly pulling himself up taller and straighter to try and fight the world, he was just...the most handsome guy Blaine had ever seen. His cheeks looked rosy against the white pillowcase, the rest of his skin so smooth and creamy and young - how did he keep it so perfect? Blaine wondered. He knew back at Dalton the boy had had practically every skincare product carried in any major department store within a half hour of campus, but they weren't 17 anymore and surely Kurt should have been subject to nature as much as any of the rest of them were, right?  
  
He wasn't, though, Blaine thought as he gazed fondly at the young man beside him. Oh, he was definitely older, but it was like the universe had decided to be extra kind to Kurt Hummel or something. Let everyone else worry about wrinkles and hair loss and slowing metabolism and just give Kurt a stronger jawline and faint light brown stubble across his chin.  
  
He wanted to touch him, to straighten the chestnut brown hair splayed across the pillow, to feel the place where perfectly smooth flushed cheek met coarse shadow, but he couldn't bear the thought of waking the man...or breaking the moment. He'd waited too long for this to cut it short now.  
  
He’d earned his second chance, he realized, aching at the thought as his grin grew even broader. Everything he’d done wrong, all the time he’d spent wishing he could go back and fix it, all the young men he’d helped avoid a similar fate, it had all brought him back here to the first man he’d ever loved – truly loved, more than just wishing he could stop dreaming about. Maybe all the talking some guys did about karma wasn’t so crazy after all; maybe he’d finally fixed his.  
  
Now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t screw this up. After all this time, the last thing he could afford to do was ruin things with Kurt ever again. Second chances were one thing – third chances were another. And besides, if getting to the second chance had taken 17 years, he doubted they’d get to a third chance much sooner. He didn’t want to wait until they were in their 50s for their life together to really start.  
  
He wanted it to start right now – right here in this city he’d never even thought about living in. How was that for fantastic luck?  
  
Kurt began to stir, slowly at first – a little wrinkle of his brow, a twitch of his nose as his breathing changed from sleep-deep inhales to something more lively, a shift of his shoulders, then a slow, full-body stretch. Blaine found himself almost holding his breath, which he knew was silly but he didn’t want to wake the man up any faster than he had to, watching and trying to memorize every second. He’d never seen what Kurt looked like when he woke up before; he’d watched him fall asleep before, a weekend he was sure Kurt didn’t remember, back in Lima over some holiday break or something, but in the morning he had desperately dashed out of bed and straight into an icy shower. Those days were over, and this…he wanted to remember it all.  
  
His eyelids fluttered for a few seconds before those beautiful eyes opened, and Blaine couldn’t help but smile a little broader. “Good morning, handsome,” he offered quietly. His smile faltered as Kurt looked confused for a moment, blinking at him curiously then seeming to almost shrug, as though he weren’t sure what was going on but had decided he’d go with it. Maybe Kurt just wasn’t a morning person and needed a little extra help putting the pieces together in the morning. “Should I go get coffee?” He had no idea where the nearest place was, but he was sure the front desk could help him with that.  
  
“Room service,” Kurt mumbled around a yawn. He stretched again, then stood, and Blaine found himself watching even more intently as the man padded from the bed into the bathroom. Was he supposed to call? He wasn’t even sure what room they were in – he remembered Kurt fumbling with the key last night and claiming it had nothing to do with the couple drinks or their fit of laughter, but he couldn’t have identified their room number if his life depended on it. But- he rolled onto his stomach and reached out for the nightstand, swiping twice until his grasped the key. Surely enough, the ring was emblazoned with the number; perfect.  
  
By the time Kurt returned – Blaine was disappointed to note he was clad in a robe – he had just set the phone back in the cradle and the key back on the table. “Breakfast will be up in about 15 minutes,” he reported, shifting back onto his side of the bed.  
  
“Thanks,” Kurt replied stiffly. He glanced at the now-empty space on the mattress, then settled on the chair instead. Blaine wasn’t sure why; there was plenty of room for them both, and the bed was surely more comfortable. Maybe he didn’t want the concierge to find two men in bed when he brought up the breakfast tray, though Blaine wasn’t sure two men in a hotel room the morning after was much less incriminating. Besides, it was 1976 for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t 1960. Even so, he reached over to retrieve his clothes.   
  
"I never expected you to be quite so quiet and sleepy in the morning," he offered as he tugged on his polo shirt. "You always seemed more like an up-and-at-'em kind of guy."  
  
"You thought about this?" Kurt asked. There was something about the way he held his face- it hadn't been like that last night, it was too...tense. Too tight and proud and vaguely bemused in a kinda taunting, haughty way that made Blaine feel uneasy.  
  
"Well, yeah, I mean...hadn't you?"  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
Blaine wasn't sure how to take that. Surely Kurt had thought about the possibility of coming back together - or at least of what could have been, right? Of what they could have had together if he hadn't been so stupid and scared... "What do you mean?"  
  
"Look, I don't-" He flicked at an invisible piece of lint on the cuff of his robe, then looked up to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes was almost-cold, almost-indifferent, and Blaine felt his stomach sink a little. "Last night was great. I had a fantastic time. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. But it was just a one-time kind of thing."  
  
He blinked, not sure he understood. If things had been fun, if they still had chemistry - which they obviously did, both personally and apparently sexually - then there should have been no reason for Kurt to say that. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I don't think dating my ex-boyfriend is a great way to spend the summer...do you?"  
  
"Why couldn't it be?" Blaine replied quickly, earnest. He could make Kurt see, if only- "I didn't expect it either, and I certainly didn't plan on it, but you know you've wondered about us. I know you have. Things are different now,  _I'm_  different. And you can't pretend we don't still have great chemistry."  
  
"You say 'still' like it's continued," Kurt half-mumbled with an exasperated roll of his eyes.   
  
Blaine's heart sank. "So you're still mad at me," he concluded quietly, aching. How long would he have to pay for it? For being scared and cruel half a lifetime ago - when, by the way, almost everyone like them had been just as scared and cruel as he had been? He hadn't seen a line of Warblers ready to stand up and declare their preferences even if he was pretty sure that, in retrospect, at least a few of them were probably messing around with their roommates after curfew and pretending it was nothing. How many more ways could he apologize? How many more times would he have to in order for Kurt to trust him and to believe he was sincere?  
  
"No, Blaine, I'm not," Kurt sighed, rolling his eyes like Blaine was the dumbest person on the planet, and that almost stung more. "I'm just- to be honest? I'm surprised you're still here."  
  
That  _stung_. He barely concealed a flinch. All these years, Kurt still thought-  
  
"Not- damnit," Kurt mumbled more to himself than to anyone. He stood in a smooth, fluid motion and crossed the distance between them to put his hand on Blaine's bicep. "Not for that. Just...one night stands don't usually stick around in the morning for breakfast and small talk."  
  
He still did that adorable scrunchy thing with his face, Blaine noticed, and it distracted him for a moment. "What if I wasn't?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What if this wasn't just one night? Why can't we pick back up where we were?"  
  
"Because we're not 17 anymore, Blaine. We barely know each other, I don't know anything about your life and god knows you don't know anything about mine."  
  
"You know about work, I told you about my last breakup, what else is there to know?"  
  
"Twenty years," Kurt replied quietly, and the open sincerity in the glasz eyes made Blaine's chest ache again. They had lost out on so much time together, had missed so much of each other's lives...he didn't know if Kurt had gone to college or just dived into The Big Apple, he had no idea if the man had dated - well, of course he had  _dated_ , but how much and how long and how deeply...or where he went after work to people-watch, or if he still took his coffee the same way. This wasn't catching up with other teachers after summer break, this was more life since they'd known one another than life before they'd met.  
  
Although...not by much.  
  
"We can learn," he pointed out. "We can catch up."  
  
"Why-" Kurt started to ask, but before he could get to the second word - which Blaine feared might be 'bother' - Blaine cut him off.  
  
"Because you're the most attractive guy I've ever seen. And I don't want to throw this chance away."  
  
That seemed to throw Kurt off-balance for a moment, and it was both unnerving and really neat to see someone who was always so put-together look startled by something - even just a little bit. The man rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly but did smile. "Yeah, well," he replied, almost as an afterthought. "I try."  
  
"I understand why we can't pick up where we were, and I...I wouldn't want to. Not as the people we were back then. But chemistry doesn't go away."  
  
"Last night was pretty fun..."  
  
"So let's just...try," Blaine suggested. "We can have some fun and see where it goes."  
  
"Maybe," Kurt replied, leaning in closer so their lips were almost touching. There was a knock at the door, and Blaine barely kept in a groan; he couldn't stop from rolling his eyes though. "Breakfast is here," Kurt stated needlessly in a near-whisper before pulling back slowly to retrieve it.  
  
Blaine fell back on the bed, unable to hide his grin. 'Maybe' was better than no, and coupled with that look and closeness, it was just one step below 'hell yes.'   
  
* * * * *  
Kurt jangled his way down the street anxiously, hand cupped over the outside of his pocket as though he was trying to still the change there just as much as he was trying to still his nerves. It had taken awhile to scrounge together all the coins in his room, and then he'd needed to still change a few dollars down at the front desk, so that by the time he left the hotel the midday sun was blazing down and the voice in his head had been telling him how stupid this was for the better part of two hours.  
  
He already knew what Ricky would say. He already knew damn well that his best friend would tell him what a moron he was being and to stop messing around with the past. There was no reason to go to all this trouble just to stand at a payphone (god he missed having a home right now, if only for the telephone in the living room that he could carry into his room and talk as long as he wanted without any mechanical voice telling him to insert another ten cents) and listen to a laundry list of reasons the previous night had been positively stupid.  
  
But he needed to hear Ricky's voice so badly right now.   
  
He leaned against the plexiglass booth and checked his watch again. This time of the afternoon, plus three hours, Ricky was probably already at work. Unless they had changed his schedule around again - sometimes a new kid would start and need certain days off for a variety of wannabe-chorus-boy lessons, and Ricky was always happy to switch - for the right price, of course. He had said last time that there was a new guy who had started recently-  
  
No, Kurt scolded himself. He was just stalling now. He wasn't sure  _why_ ; it wasn't as though he was trying to avoid being told how idiotic he'd been the night before. If he wanted that, he could just not call in the first place. Of course, his own mind was filling in nicely for Ricky in the meantime, repeating over and over again-  
  
Fine. He shoved a few coins into the slot and dialed, body almost going limp with relief as he heard the familiar voice. "Oscar Wilde Bookshop."  
  
"Hey - is it full there right now?"  
  
"Vonny! God, no - at 3:30 on a weekday? I was trying nail enamel shades."  
  
Kurt smiled as he pictured Ricky standing at the front counter, phone cradled against his shoulder as he tried a different colour on each nail, studying his hands in the light from the big window... "Any winners?"  
  
"Nah, they're all for white girl hands. A few would look fantastic on you. How are you? Any star sightings yet? Did you finally get some sun on those pasty cheeks?"  
  
"No beach time yet, Mercedes has been dragging me to meetings so I can spend five minutes talking about image and the rest listening to debates over producers. When all this is over, I'm dragging her to a line meeting so she'll understand why I keep asking if I'm really needed."  
  
"And with that, next spring's line will feature a lot of shocking pink and animal print..." Ricky intoned dryly. The two did get along better now than they had at first, if only because Mercedes had gotten used to the guy. It was all perfectly civil, even if they would never be buddies...or understand one another's fashion sense.   
  
"Could be worse," Kurt pointed out, and Ricky groaned. "Remember the lamé?"  
  
"Just because it was awful to work with doesn't mean it was bad to wear. Well...okay, fine, yes it was, but only because that shit doesn't breathe - talk about sweating through my makeup, my boobs, the whole 9. But it did  _look_  fabulous, especially under the lights. Better than doubleknit polyester, which is just as awful to wear."  
  
Kurt smiled as he listened, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall of the booth, letting himself imagine for a moment he was back in New York's sweltering humidity, thumbing through a magazine at the counter. This was the chance of a lifetime out here, and he was grateful for it - and enjoying the freedom, that was for sure. He understood what possessed Don to stay in business for himself even if it wasn't nearly as steady or lucrative yet. But he wished he could have the opportunity and his best friend in the same place at the same time.  
  
In New York. Where things weren't nearly so confusing and there wasn't an ex-boyfriend who had grown into himself nicely trying to pursue him in some ill-fated attempt to...Kurt didn't even know.  
  
"...So what's really going on, Vonny?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh please, baby. Don't get me wrong, you should call more often. But something's up."  
  
"How do you-"  
  
"How long have we known each other?" Ricky pointed out.  
  
Kurt sighed and nodded. He didn't know why he was trying to hide behind small talk anyway; he had called Ricky for one reason - to have someone else verbally smack him upside the head for the stupid thing he'd done the night before. Why was he postponing the inevitable?  
  
"I slept with Blaine last night."  
  
"...who?" Ricky asked.  
  
That was the question, wasn't it? Who was Blaine at this point, and what did he have to do with- where did he fit into anything anymore? Was he's a really cute guy I met at a club and went for coffee with' or 'the guy who ripped out my heart and ran 3,000 miles away'?   
  
"Wait. The boyfriend...back when you were in prep-school?"  
  
"The very same," Kurt replied dryly.  
  
"No!" Ricky gasped. "How did this happen?"  
  
Kurt recounted - flippantly at first, to try to make clear all the ways this hadn't been his plan, then more slowly as he tried to find a way of breaking down the night before. Ricky did a surprisingly good job of not interrupting - much, anyway - but before Kurt could explain the awkward conversation this morning and Blaine's mistaken belief that this meant something, his friend broke in. "So was it good?"  
  
"Ricky."  
  
"Oh c'mon, Vonny, you can tell me," Ricky practically cooed.  
  
Kurt rolled his eyes but admitted, "Pretty good. He's so eager to please people-"  
  
"God, those are the best," he groaned.  
  
"And his hair's looser than it was, which-"  
  
"Like falling out?"  
  
"No! He just...used to wear it all slicked down, and now it's...well, it's still full of products, but you can tangle your fingers in it-" Ricky groaned again and Kurt raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Do you need to be alone?"  
  
"Mm, no, I'll work through it. So if the sex is good, and if he's not some closeted jerk with a wife in Pasadena, why are you calling me from a payphone instead of getting yourself an encore?"  
  
"Because-..." Kurt stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't know what to say. Because...he hadn't expected it? Because it wasn't part of his plan for the summer, as though anything about this summer were planned? Because he didn't know anything about the person Blaine was now and had no idea if they were compatible, even though clearly they fit well together both at dinner and in bed? Because there was no point in getting involved in some complicated thing if he was leaving in a few months anyway?  
  
Because Blaine really liked him? And maybe was still in love with him all these years later?  
  
"Please don't tell me it's because you're still pissed at the guy. Do you know how much stupid shit people do at 15?"  
  
"18," he corrected distantly.  
  
"Not that different," Ricky replied. "Not that different from stupid shit you did at 20."  
  
"I didn't lead anyone on and willfully destroy them," Kurt replied shortly, standing up straighter, eyes narrowing. "Going to the wrong park to look for love is different than having it and throwing it in someone's face. It's different than lying to someone for months about the future and intentions. I made mistakes when I was younger, we all have. What he did was worse."  
  
"...So it is because you're still mad," Ricky concluded quietly.  
  
Kurt could picture the judgment on his friend's face - he could judge like no one else, even in the entire ballroom full of perfectly judgmental queens. And he deserved every bit of it right now - being mad at someone this many years later was a sign of being...he wasn't sure exactly, but he was pretty sure it was somewhere between petty and pathetic. "No," he replied, but it came out more ridiculous-sounding than he wanted it to. He sighed quietly, sinking back against the plexiglass. "I don't know. I'm not in general anymore - for years I was mad every time I thought about him, but that's been at least a decade. But people need to stop defending him so much, as though being young was an excuse. I was even younger than he was, and I didn't run away screaming from what could have been a great relationship and future. I was younger than he was, and I wasn't scared." There was a long silence on the other end, and Kurt finally asked, "What?"  
  
"Do you want the nice answer or the real one, Vonny?"  
  
That question was never a good sign - it always meant Ricky thought he was being ridiculous. Or insufferable. But that was why he had called, right? "Always the real one."  
  
"You're obviously still hung up on this guy and what happened. How many queens do you know who weren't out until later? Sure as hell not in high school, Vonny, c'mon - almost no one's like us. Half the people we know had wives, or at least longterm girlfriends to practice so-called celibacy with."  
  
"Crystal has kids..." That did still blow his mind. He loved both Rachel and Mercedes but couldn't imagine actually having  _sex_  with either of them, let alone frequently enough to have a child, least of all more than one.  
  
"Exactly. Look, you and me, we can't hide even if we try. Some girls can. And I sure as hell would have to keep myself at home if I thought it was an option. He's still ahead of the curve - do you know how many clients I have who still don't think anyone knows? The guy's not shoving muscle magazines under his workbench and hoping no one finds them, so cut him some slack for being scared twenty years ago. If he's still an ass or wants to treat you like some dirty little fantasy, dump him like last year's eyeliner, but until then."  
  
Kurt wrapped the thick metal cord around his fingers absently, wishing it were the flexible loops he was used to; there was something comforting about being able to fidget with something while thinking. "He's not an ass," he admitted with a faint smile. "Last night was fun."  
  
"How fun?"  
  
Kurt rolled his eyes. "You already know the answer to that. He's funny - and sweet. And he does this thing with his eyes where they light up when he talks about his job..."  
  
"What's he do?"  
  
"Teach." He heard Ricky groan again and quickly added, "Children, Ricky."  
  
"There's no need to kill a fantasy like that," he scolded offhandedly. "Bookish  _and_  eager to please?"  
  
"And he still sings."  
  
"So you have something in common."  
  
"It's more than that," Kurt replied. "I mean, yes, but it's...so much more. The way he looks when he does..." He wished he could ignore it, or that Blaine had never asked him out with that stupid, ridiculous performance, because then he could have avoided this whole thing, but once the music started he'd been a goner.   
  
If Blaine could express even a third as much through speaking as he could through song, they wouldn't have had nearly so many problems. Music was a powerful tool, but sometimes there just wasn't a song that said everything, and unless he started writing his own collection of apology songs that might apply to more situations...   
  
"So go have him sing to you and  _then_  get yourself an encore," Ricky suggested, but there was a touch of seriousness now - not too much, he was still flippant as usual, but Kurt had known him long enough to recognize the subtle change as a sign of sincerity.   
  
"I'll call him tomorrow," Kurt concluded. Calling tonight would give Blaine the wrong impression and suggest he was jumping into this much deeper and faster than he planned. He had no intention of flinging himself headlong into the relationship the way he so often did, fixating on the object of his affection, but maybe he could set aside the caution a little bit.   
  
"Gives you plenty of time to stock up on Crisco."  
  
"Ha." He rolled his eyes.  
  
"Were there cobwebs last night? Because with how long it's been I'd guess it was dustier than grandma's attic."  
  
"I'm hanging up now."  
  
"You know you miss me."  
  
He smiled, hand squeezing the phone for a moment. "I do."  
  
"I do too," Ricky replied, and the sincerity was back; then in a second it was gone. "Now go tangle your hair in some curls." And he added for good measure, lest anyone mistake him for a serious or demure person, "Wherever you find 'em. Have fun, Vonny!"  
  
Kurt shook his head at the innuendo but couldn't help but smile as he set the receiver in its cradle. He stepped out of the booth into the fresh air and started back up the block toward the hotel. With all that settled, he could put it out of his mind and catch up on his sewing.


	9. Chapter 9

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late,” Blaine protested weakly. Kurt smirked and leaned in again, nipping lightly at the spot just below his lover’s ear, and surely enough the man’s eyes rolled back then closed. Argument won, Kurt thought to himself, his smirk growing as he considered just how quickly he could unfasten Blaine’s shirt without him noticing. It was a little harder at this angle, with Blaine draped half-off the side of the bed, but Kurt  _did_  like a challenge. But no sooner had his fingers touched the top button than Blaine tried again to protest. “They’ll just be sitting there waiting…”  
  
Kurt sat back, gazing down at him with a skeptically-arched brow. “Are you really more concerned with a heterosexual couple sitting in a strange restaurant than you are with what I could do once I get this shirt off?”  
  
“No, no, of course not,” Blaine replied quickly, almost breathlessly, and Kurt felt victorious still. “But I agreed…”  
  
“On both our behalf,” Kurt grumbled. “I never said anything about being there, you can blame me for being held up…it  _is_  my fault…” he added as he leaned in again, and Blaine groaned.  
  
“Why do you have to do this?” he whined, clearly not objecting. “It’s just a few hours…”  
  
“We could do plenty of other things in that time.”  
  
“I thought you liked Sam.”  
  
“Of course I do,” Kurt replied. “I mean, I did. It’s been awhile. And I have no idea about this wife of hers. What’s her name?”  
  
Blaine thought a moment. “Nancy.”  
  
Sam and Nancy. With two kids and a house – Kurt didn’t know the last time he’d met someone who owned a house. People who lived in apartments that were located in houses, technically, but those were different. Those were walk-ups in pre-war buildings, they weren’t  _houses_. What were they going to have to talk about? The good old days? How cute their toddler was with food on its face? He could think of a thousand more interesting ways to spend the evening, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that at least 600 of them involved taking off Blaine’s shirt as a necessary first step. He reached down again, but Blaine caught his hand.  
  
“Kurt-“ He sighed, glancing away. “I am the last person who  _wants_  to be saying this, trust me, but we need to get up.”  
  
Kurt rolled his eyes and slipped off the bed, tugging his shirttails out of his waistband so he could retuck them properly. “Spoilsport.”  
  
“Later, I promise,” Blaine assured him. “We don’t have to stay too long if you don’t want, just a quick dinner.” He walked over to the mirror on the dresser and began to smooth his hair into place – not glued down, but not looking like a rat’s nest either. Kurt found himself watching, admiring a little even, but he didn’t let himself blush when caught. “Oh, and before I forget.” He sifted through a couple things on the dressertop, then held up a key.   
  
Kurt felt himself go stiff and cold, a shiver dropping into his stomach and then spreading through his limbs. A key? They’d been fooling around for a few weeks and Blaine was giving him a  _key_? The only people whose apartments he’d ever had keys to were his own, Ricky’s, and Mercedes’ old Manhattan place so he could water her plants while she was out of town. He knew couples exchanged keys at some point, but he had never quite gotten there. Ricky certainly hadn’t; Ricky prided himself on never getting past a third date. What did this mean, exactly? And why the hell did Blaine think this was something they should do  _now_.  
  
“I…don’t have one to give you. Hotel and all,” he muttered, and Blaine looked unfazed.  
  
“I know. This is just for convenience’s sake. I thought…y’know, after last weekend when I had to get out of the shower to let you in…”  
  
“That wasn’t such a bad first view,” Kurt replied. He felt like he sounded breathless – why couldn’t he breathe? And his voice was getting higher than it had been in awhile, a telltale sign of nervousness. Did Blaine remember that? Did he know him well enough to guess?  
  
Blaine grinned but rolled his eyes. “Thanks…but it was cold.”  
  
“So the key is so I can just join you in the tub?” he asked, not believing there was any chance that was Blaine’s MO.   
  
“Or just make yourself comfortable, either way,” Blaine replied easily with a shrug as he held out the key for him to take.  
  
“I really don’t need it,” he asserted, almost taking a step back. “I’m not going to come hang out in your apartment when you’re not here, so there’s no point.”  
  
Blaine’s face fell a little, and Kurt wasn’t sure he understood why. Rather, he didn’t understand why if Blaine were telling the truth. If the key really was meant as a convenience, then there was no reason to be so disappointed about it. Which meant that the key had to be about more than just being able to come sit on the couch a few minutes early. It had to be about…whatever keys usually meant for couples. Commitment? Permanence? Planning to still be fooling around in a few months? Certainty that the other person wouldn’t steal your stereo? Granted, the last one was fine with him, he was pretty sure Blaine was more likely to break in and leave him more albums instead of taking any, but that wasn’t the point.   
  
It was still new. They’d only been doing this for a few weeks, and he still wasn’t sure he believed Blaine wasn’t going to spook at the first sign of trouble. The last thing he needed was a physical token of the relationship that needed returned if things went south.  
  
Besides. They were casual. Casual relationships didn’t exchange keys. At least not in New York they didn’t. He doubted San Franciscans kept enormous rings of keys around to hand out to anyone they’d fucked more than twice in a week, either.  
  
But Blaine looked so crushed that he wasn’t happy about the key…  
  
With a tight forced smile, he took the key and slipped it into his pocket. “We should go,” he stated before padding across the room to grab his shoes. “We don’t want to be late for dinner.”  
  
Anything to get out of this conversation.  
  
* * * * *  
  
If Kurt had been skeptical of their dinner plans before, his eyebrows raised further when he saw the location.  
  
“They cannot be serious.”  
  
“What?” Blaine asked, looking up from his watch as he checked to be sure they weren’t running late; the clock in the car seemed to be gaining time, and though they were both getting used to LA traffic patterns slowly but surely, the local suggestion that everything was “20 minutes away” felt more and more like sarcasm every day.  
  
“Does anyone actually think this is what the 50s looked like?” Wide swaths of polished chrome reflected garish pink neon lettering perched along the top of the roof. The half-connected lettering was too thin, too smooth, with odd angles that didn’t seem to go together at all. Through the enormous plate glass windows that spanned the front of the restaurant (Kurt refused to call it a ‘diner.’ This place closed at 10; what good was a diner if you couldn’t stop for eggs, pancakes, and enormous glasses of water and juice half an hour before the sun came up?) he could see a row of booths upholstered in crimson pleather flanking shiny white tables with ribbed chrome around the edges. From what he could see of the counter between folks in their 20s hunched over turkey sandwiches, the surface was more of the same sleek white material, though parts of it took on an odd pinkish glow where the round red stools reflected.   
  
“It’s not that bad,” Blaine protested as he pulled open the door and held it for Kurt to enter. Kurt glanced down and shook his head at the ubiquitous checkerboard black and white linoleum floor that everywhere seemed to think symbolized décor two decades ago.  
  
“Did you know of a single place with a floor like this?” he asked, pointing.  
  
“I don’t know, it was awhile ago.” Blaine thought a moment, then recalled, “The place by campus had those old yellow tiles that looked like they’d come out of someone’s kitchen.”  
  
“Exactly. And they weren’t the only ones. And why does everyone think the only colours that existed back then were black, white, red, and gleaming silver?” The diner in Lima that he’d only set foot in with his dad – and even then only reluctantly because the owner was a segregationist pig – had a couple light blue walls, he remembered that much, and first forest green upholstery, then black when they changed things sometime after he went to New York. No red to be found. “When I think of back then, I remember a lot of leftover deco, wood paneling, and digging out coins for the automat.” Though technically he did guess those memories were technically from the 60s, but that was another thing – everyone suddenly acting like “the 50s” were a discrete time that could be recreated in a restaurant, as though eras could be switched on and off like a light.   
  
“Maybe that’s what it was like out here,” Blaine supposed with a shrug as he led Kurt through the entryway and peered around the room in search of their dining companions.  
  
“Was it like this in San Francisco?”  
  
“Definitely not,” he confirmed quickly. “At least not anywhere I was. Maybe it was different further from campus, but I wouldn’t know. Hey – there they are.”  
  
Kurt had to admit, he was a little surprised to see Sam’s wife. Considering he remembered his former roommate as a nerdy guy who tried unsuccessfully to make a pass at girls who usually dated quarterbacks, he had apparently been successful at least once. She was exactly the type of girl who would have ditched Sam after twenty minutes to talk to the tall suave guy by the jukebox or feigned a headache to leave after the first Hobbit reference, but even from across the room he could see them engaged in animated conversation. She threw her head back and laughed easily, light brown feathered hair sweeping back with the movement; Sam wore a self-satisfied grin at his own joke even as he shoved his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose with the back of his index finger.  
  
He’d finally found someone who thought his jokes and impressions were funny. Maybe there really was hope for everyone.  
  
Sam noticed them as Kurt slid into the booth. “Hey guys – you found it okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Blaine confirmed with a nod.   
  
“The neon sign was like a beacon,” Kurt added, and Blaine shot him an uncomfortable look.   
  
“Yeah, they all added them,” Sam shrugged.  
  
“Blame American Graffiti,” his wife added with a dismissive roll of her eyes that was tempered by a warm grin. "Suddenly everyone in town remembered how much fun it was to be a teenager."  
  
Kurt got the feeling he'd missed that part of being a teenager. He remembered a lot of listening to music by himself and wondering if anyone else like him would ever exist. His twenties had been better, if he didn't count the arrests, but he didn't think any time could compare to the present. Now that the world had finally caught up to him, he didn't have any desire to go back.  
  
Not that he didn't have fond memories. Laughing with Mercedes as they laid on her bed and read magazines. Window shopping with Rachel their first year in New York when they couldn't afford anything but dreams. Performing with any choir he could...including step-touching behind a certain boy, surrounded by guys who thought rehearsal was the best part of the day. But the image of what it meant to be a teenager then, what they showed in the movies and on tv and in musicals, wasn't at all what he remembered life being.  
  
(Also no one had worn dogs on their skirts - poodles or otherwise. Not even Rachel. What deranged costume designer had decided that was a style?)  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
By the time dessert arrived, their party had shrunk from four to two. Nancy had slipped out because the baby sitter could only stay until 9, Kurt because he had promised to take Mercedes out to check out the competition at a nightclub. Blaine leaned back in the booth as he used the side of his fork to slice off a bite of pie. The table seemed empty with just two of them there, especially with the rest of the diner so packed with groups of chatty young people - like a little island of quiet. Weaving its way through the din were strains of "Sea Cruise," and he smiled faintly to himself as he remembered the Warblers bopping around the common room singing it. Junior year? He was pretty sure - he didn't remember Kurt being there, and he remembered it being toward the end of the year so if Kurt had been there he definitely would have noticed...and tried very hard not to let anyone notice he noticed.   
  
He was so glad those days were over.  
  
"So that's Nancy," Blaine offered, breaking the silence.   
  
Sam grinned, and even from across the table Blaine knew that feeling - the inability not to smile when the person he loved was mentioned, the unstoppable happiness even their name brought... "Yeah, that's her."  
  
"She's great. You really fit together," he replied sincerely.   
  
"She's fantastic. You should see her work - come out to set sometime this summer. Flipping all over the place and kicking ass and stuff." Blaine had to admit, he wasn't sure he'd ever thought about female stunt doubles, but he guessed that if actors who played superheroes had them, then Linda Carter probably had one too. "You and Kurt seem to be doing well."  
  
"You think?" Blaine asked. He had thought so, too, but earlier… When Sam looked confused, he admitted, "I can't tell anymore. I don't know where we are, he's kind of...up and down about it."  
  
"...and usually girls are the ones who ask all that stuff," Sam surmised gravely with a nod. "'Where are we going?' 'What do we want?' 'Are you ever going to marry me?' With just guys it'd be easier... right?"  
  
"Usually," Blaine agreed with a stiff shrug. "A lot of guys don't really date, especially now. I do, but I have no idea if he does." For all he knew, Kurt was one of the guys who thought that being able to skulk around dark bars every night for a new lover was the height of liberation. Hell, for all he knew that was what Kurt was doing right now. He hated how queasy the idea made him - they hadn't actually made any promises to the contrary, he didn't have a right to object, but the thought of the man he loved pawing at a bear somewhere...  
  
Sam chuckled and shoved a bite of pie into his mouth with a shake of his head, blond hair bouncing against his face. "What?" Blaine asked.  
  
"You really think Kurt doesn't believe in dating and romance?"  
  
"I don't know-"  
  
"The guy had magazine clippings from Grace Kelly's wedding on his desk," Sam replied like the answer should have been obvious. "You're trying to tell me you don't know?"  
  
Sure, Kurt had liked romance back then; he'd thrown himself into it, into musicals with starcrossed lovers and sweet movies where the guy got the girl, into fantasies about idyllic married life... his stomach sank as he remembered bits and pieces of what the boy had talked about back then, of apartments in New York and soirees they'd throw together in the safety of the big, open-minded city... he shoved his plate aside, no longer hungry. "I know he was romantic then," Blaine offered simply, unwilling - and unable - to explain further. "But that was a long time ago. A lot of us feel differently now that there are more options." After all, back then Kurt had wanted nothing more than to live together. Now he blanched at the sight of a key when he hadn’t even attached strings to it. Who knew what else had changed?  
  
"But you don't, or you wouldn't care," Sam surmised. "Did you guys talk about it?"  
  
"No, I told you-"  
  
"Not that. The way things went off the rails."  
  
Blaine looked up in surprised. "You know...?"   
  
"Not the details or anything, but I know enough," Sam replied with a dismissive shrug. "I know something happened at the dance, I know you left the state. That's it."  
  
"Did he tell you-"  
  
"He didn't tell me anything. He didn't think anyone could figure it out, but I'm not as dumb as people think."  
  
Blaine wasn't sure if Sam was joking or not, if it was meant as self-rebuke or a critique of those who would underestimate him, and he shifted awkwardly. "We didn't tell anyone," he offered simply. "That was my decision," he added haltingly. All of it had been, really. He'd driven the relationship in so many ways; Kurt would have happily taken them public, he bet; the guy had always been ahead of his time. He'd driven things right into the ground.  
  
"Of course you didn't. It was the 50s in Ohio," Sam replied, but it didn't make Blaine feel any better about it. "We had to skip competitions because they wouldn’t let you or Wes or David into the building. Everyone knows it’s different now. But understanding that doesn't always..." he paused, looking awkward, then admitted quietly, "Stuff stays with you sometimes, you know? I have everything I could want, right? I've got a gorgeous wife who thinks I'm funny, we have two great kids, I have my dream job - I get to make space movies for a living. I blow up spaceships every day and figure out ways to make aliens. What's better than that? But sometimes I still feel like that stupid kid who couldn't pass physics. I look at Nancy and think one day she's going to figure out how dumb I am and how much better she could do." His jaw tightened for a moment, then he shrugged as if to dismiss the admission. "Look, I don't know Kurt like you do, but I remember what he was like that year, especially toward the end."  
  
Blaine wasn't sure he could tell what Kurt had been like by the end of the year, not really. He'd been so wrapped up in himself, so full of uncontrollable abject terror and skin-crawling disgust that he hadn't paid attention to anyone else. He shuddered as he heard a new song piping through the restaurant - he'd spent so many hours cursing himself over it. Why did he have to be a teenager in love with someone so wrong? Why did he have to be a teenager in lust with another boy? Why did he have to be sick like he was? Why did Kurt have to be so blissfully unaware of what misery their sickness led to?  
  
If only he'd been able to listen back then...   
  
"Look, I'm not saying it to-...of course you couldn't be like anyone else back then," Sam offered, trying to reassure him. "I just think maybe telling him it's different now would help. He's not as confident as he wants people to think, man."  
  
Hearing from someone else who knew Kurt as well - or maybe better - as he did felt as odd as if their waiter had somehow known his parents. For decades Kurt had seemed practically like a figment of his teenage imagination, a ghost that haunted him that no one else could see. But Sam had lived only a few feet from Kurt; he knew what he was talking about.  
  
"He knows it's different now," Blaine pointed out. Everyone knew it was different now - they'd spent the evening on a double-date with a married couple, in public, teasing each other about stealing fries and acting like any other couple. They had gone out to bars and dance clubs and coffee shops and...anywhere else they cared to go, and no one had threatened to arrest them or shut down a party because someone was in drag. Of course things had improved. If even Sam could see that, then he certainly didn't need to tell Kurt the news.  
  
"So are you."  
  
On one hand, Blaine knew it was true. He wasn't anything like he'd been in high school, or even in college. He didn't feel the desperate need to control himself that sometimes, by the end of the day, left him feeling like a tightly-wound spring that might pop at any minute. He wasn't afraid of everything. Actually, if he thought about it, he wasn't really  _afraid_  of anything anymore. There were things that made him nervous, like annual teacher evaluations or auditions for a local production, or things he worried about on bad days, like whether he'd be alone forever after a breakup, but those paled in comparison to what he remembered of his life before: constant terror that people would see through him, that his father would know, that he'd either be miserable forever or suffer a botched attempt to get well and wind up even more damaged. Of course he was different now. But the idea that someone could see it just by looking at him, especially after not seeing one another for twenty years or so, seemed silly.  
  
Or, on the off chance that it was true that he looked that different, why couldn't Kurt see it and give him the benefit of the doubt? If his ability to be comfortable in his own skin - something he'd worked so hard to obtain - was that obvious to others, then why didn't Kurt understand that things would be different this time? Why did Kurt seem to hold back so much?  
  
"You really think so?" he asked.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Then why doesn't he see it?"  
  
Sam hesitated, hedging, then replied, "I dunno, you've gotta ask him that. Maybe he doesn't trust what he sees. You were pretty good at holding things together back then, but so was he. Maybe you've gotta actually say stuff."  
  
"I tried to explain it. The song-"  
  
"Was good, but c'mon, man, we're not 15. Music's great, but if I tried to sing an apology to Nance she'd look at me like I was nuts."  
  
He guessed Sam might have a point, but he wasn't sure what he could physically say that would explain half as much as the song had. The lyrics had told the whole story - the realization, the fear about what it meant, the overwhelming nature of it all... what more was there to say?  
  
Except maybe that he was sorry. Because he was - god, he was.   
  
"Maybe," he allowed as he poked absently at the uneaten pie crust with his fork. Unsure what else to say, he forced a smile and asked, "So tell me about this movie you're working on." Sam's face lit up almost as much as it did when he talked about his wife, and for awhile as the blond talked excitedly about trying to film robots in the desert and flight simulators and blowing up countless miniature versions of a planet-like spaceship, Blaine didn't have to say anything.  
  
* * * * *  
Blaine wasn’t sure what woke him up; he didn’t remember any dreams that would have roused him, and he didn’t hear any car alarms or drunk neighbours or sexually frustrated cats outside his window. He glanced to his right to check the time: 4:03. Great. By the time he got back to sleep, it would only be a few hours until he should wake up anyway. Not that it mattered much, he didn’t have anywhere to be in the morning, but after being on a teacher’s schedule for so long it felt strange to sleep in  _too_  late. Besides, he liked having time to run any errands he needed before Kurt was awake so he could go over to the hotel and make plans for the day. That way he didn’t have to interrupt their time together for something as essential but boring as grocery shopping.   
  
Maybe if he didn’t think too much he could get back to sleep. He started to roll over but stopped as his elbow almost hit the sleeping form beside him.  
  
He had no idea when Kurt had come over and crawled into bed with him. He hadn’t heard a knock on the door, which meant Kurt must have used the key despite his protests, but he also hadn’t heard the door open or felt the bed move.   
  
Kurt had known he’d be asleep, had come over anyway, and had crawled into bed with him even though he was apparently sleeping hard enough to not even notice him which meant there was no possibility of sex on the table.  
  
So Kurt wasn’t as scared of the key as he had seemed earlier. And he wasn’t trying to keep everything casual and sex-only…or maybe he had been, but he was trying to do better.  
  
Maybe Kurt wanted the big romantic vision of domestic life together as much as he ever had, he just didn’t know how to say it. Or didn’t trust him. Blaine couldn’t blame him; he wished he could, but given everything…  
  
“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he propped himself on his elbow, watching Kurt sleep. His jaw was slack with sleep, so unlike the clenched position he held it in during waking hours, so…relaxed. Calm. Guileless. “I know that doesn’t-“   
  
Kurt shifted, and Blaine practically held his breath, afraid he’d woken the man, but after a few moments he settled back into peaceful sleep. Blaine exhaled slowly and tried to calm his racing heart. What was he so afraid of? That Kurt might hear him apologize again? Hear him explain why he had ruined everything?  
  
He didn’t know that he could say it out loud if he knew Kurt was listening. Not yet – he wanted to. Oh did he want to. But he didn’t know how exactly: where to start, what to say, what to leave out…how to justify it without making it sound like he still believed he was right. Maybe he was, he didn’t know anymore. He hadn’t really known for sure in a long time. Had it been the only safe way out of the situation, or a coward’s silence with too high a price?  
  
“I wish I could have believed you back then,” he admitted very quietly. “You were so sure, I should have known you’d be right, but after so many years of seeing what became of men like us, I couldn’t-“ he choked on the growing lump on his throat and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to reach out and run his fingers over Kurt’s soft hair. It always looked so manageable, so much easier than his own locks…nothing a person had to conceal or hide from.  
  
He caught himself staring in the mirror sometimes and wondering whether his eyes were getting narrower as he got older, as he smiled or laughed or-… his father would have said the answer was to smile less. Smiling wasn’t as important in itself as putting others at ease was, and that meant looking as pale and conventional and- and  _normal_  as possible. As though being anything other than white were abnormal. As though by existing he broke too many rules and needed to be punished, stifled and pushed back into a box or held down while needles were shoved behind his eyes-  
  
He still had nightmares about it. About being trapped deep inside himself and shouting as loudly as he could but never speaking, the Outward Blaine perfect and poised and robotic. He would have made as good of a host as his mother always did.  
  
He wondered if she were still inside somewhere, if he could uncage her somehow and let her just  _live_. If she stopped taking whatever pharmaceutical cocktail, would there be a person left to release or would she just be a hollow shell without any benzos?  
  
“I should have listened to you,” he whispered. “If I could go back, I would. But I had to get away from  _them_. And there were the men in the newspaper, and if my father had found out… None of them got a life, Kurt, none of them got to be who they wanted or be free or even just  _happy_ , they were all dead inside and if that was the future, I couldn’t…I couldn’t watch that happen to you. I couldn’t ask you to watch that happen to me. And if we’d gone together he would have known, I mean, he already knew about you. It was the only choice – and I’m still sorry I made it. It’s been 15 years and god, I’m still so sorry I made it…”  
  
There wasn’t any point to this, he realized as he fell silent. There was nothing else he knew how to say, and Kurt couldn’t hear him anyway. All he was doing was getting sucked into the past and how awful he had felt decades ago. There was no reason to continue; it was best to stay with where they were, what they had  _now_ , and build something new.   
  
He nodded to himself and slid down under the lightweight covers slowly so as not to disturb the man beside him; when Kurt didn’t stir, Blaine let his body relax a little. After a moment, he reached out slowly and drew himself closer to Kurt until he was practically wrapped around him.  
  
It had been a long time. The shadowy figure that haunted his dreams was dead, the old guard with him. He could relax and let it go and move forward. He had to.  
  
Kurt half-woke enough to wrap an arm around him, and Blaine let himself melt into the sleepy embrace, drifting off to sleep as he inhaled the scent of his lover’s hair and felt his warm breath on bare skin.  
  
He was okay. They both were.


	10. Chapter 10

"So whatcha think?"  
  
Mercedes looked up as Marvin slid into the driver's seat. "Who thinks clams with cheese are enough to feed a person?"  
  
He chuckled, fumbling in the dark to put the key in the ignition. "No clams casino for your debut. Got it. Anything else?"  
  
"The drinks were good. A little strong, but a tipsy audience cheers louder."  
  
"Said from experience?"   
  
She gave him a look that clearly said 'Of course - you think I don't know they love me?' Kurt said she'd had that look down since he'd known her, and she was kind of surprised her mother hadn't tried to knock it out of her at some point. The woman did like to point out that vanity was a sin, just like any other. But her mother didn't seem to have a problem making sure everyone at church followed Mercedes' career, so it must not be  _too_  big of a sin. Besides, it wasn't her fault if she could read a room and know when she had them. "Tours teach you a lot."  
  
"You mean aside from not to touch anyone's mirror - or boyfriend?"  
  
Well, there had been a fast education in all of  _that_. Half the time it was like living in the old apartment during her girl-group says - but worse because the bus was somehow even smaller than a Harlem apartment, and it was crammed with eight girls instead of only four, all trying to protect their turf - and their fame. But there had been so much more than just the cramped quarters and months of bad road food. The roar of the crowds had been incredible - overwhelming and exhilarating all at the same time. Nothing could top 40,000 people shouting along the words to your song. Having been so many places still felt unreal, even if they didn't get to see a whole lot of anything but the arena.   
  
But it was bigger than that. Sure, some of the girls were awful to be around and thought everyone was trying to steal their thunder, and some spent more time nose-down on a mirror or face-up on a bed with a flavor of the week than they did working, but a lot of them were amazing: as into music as she was, eager to share favourite blues albums or figure out new hairstyles. It was like a grown-up summer camp with a huge audience every night.   
  
"Kurt doesn't need a ride?" Marvin checked as he glanced in the rearview mirror.  
  
"No, he ducked out between sets. I think he wanted to get back to Blaine." Even in the dark, she could see Marvin roll his eyes, and she bristled a little. Maybe Kurt was right that Marvin had a problem with him. He seemed fine to her most of the time, but a response like that...   
  
He could just be annoyed that Kurt left midway through, she thought. Or he hated codependent couples. Either way, since he was kind of her boss, she didn't think she should push it.  
  
"You never answered my question."  
  
"Which one?'  
  
"What'd ya think of the show?"  
  
"It was okay."  
  
"That all?" he asked skeptically.  
  
"A lot of the songs felt like she was trying to sing for a much bigger audience. The songs themselves were fine, but it was...not as intimate as the space." She would have to be careful about that in her own show, she could tell already. She was used to singing to the back row way up in some balcony, not just across the room.  
  
"I hoped you'd catch that." Marvin smiled as he turned left down a road Mercedes didn't remember. "Recognizing it's a quarter of the battle."  
  
"Only a quarter?"  
  
"Sure. You still have to fix it."  
  
"I guess so," she allowed, looking out the window. "Is this a shortcut?"  
  
"Observant," he praised with a faint grin. "Nope - detour."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"You're right, that wasn't dinner. You like cheeseburgers?"  
  
"Doesn't everyone?"  
  
"Out here, everyone's always on a diet or a commune somewhere where they don't eat beef or something," he replied dismissively as he pulled into a little drive-in stand, all lit up despite the hour. A few people sat at picnic tables off to one side, and Mercedes was surprised to see the parking lot partially full.   
  
"People eat a lot of cheeseburgers at almost 2 in the morning?"  
  
"Yeah," Marvin replied with a shrug, like it was no big thing.  
  
"And they say New York is the city that never sleeps."  
  
"You can't get burgers after midnight or something?" He shook his head as he got out of the car. "That's not a world I'd want to live in."   
  
"Sure you can, but they act like it's the only city where that's true."  
  
"Have to tell Ol' Blue Eyes he's wrong," Marvin smirked, leading the way to the window as he dug out his wallet. Mercedes reached for her purse, but he shook his head. "Don't even try it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Put your pocketbook away - it's on me." He stepped up to the window and ordered enough food for three, then paid without asking what she wanted. She felt like she was supposed to be offended, but in the back of her head she could hear her mother's clucking tongue; a gentleman was supposed to order for a young lady, just like he was supposed to pay and pull out her chair. That all sounded so old-fashioned and dumb now, though. She could pay for her own cheeseburger - and she could order for herself, she wasn't some delicate vase that needed handled with care.  
  
As the clerk set two cups in the window, Marvin handed one to her. "Here."   
  
She picked it up and took a long swig, the thick chocolate milkshake taking a moment to reach her lips. "My favourite."  
  
"I know," he replied as he picked up his own cup.  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yeah, you said something to Kurt," he shrugged, like it was no big deal.   
  
She wasn't sure why she felt like it was. He had remembered something she'd said, that was all. ...in passing. Awhile ago. That she didn't actually even remember saying because it had been that casual and off-hand.   
  
That was either creepy or sweet. She wasn't sure which.   
  
  
* * * * *  
  
Blaine did his best to slip out of bed unnoticed in the morning, holding his breath as he tried to gently extricate himself from Kurt’s sleepy grasp without waking the man beside him. He smiled as Kurt’s arm flopped lazily on the bed, fumbled for a moment, then tugged a pillow closer to him; apparently he was replaceable. He padded quietly out of the bedroom and began his morning: grabbing the LA Times from the door mat, starting coffee, then pulling eggs out of the fridge to start making breakfast. He hummed [quietly](http://youtu.be/-yAQkyn8pe4%E2%80%9D) to himself – even after all these years, the Drifters still knew how to write a catchy tune.  
  
He didn’t notice Kurt had emerged from the bedroom until he felt a nudge at his shoulder. “Coffee smells good,” Kurt offered as he poured himself a generous mug full.  
  
“Did I wake you?”  
  
“Your absence did,” he replied as he tried to cover a yawn. Mug in one hand, sugar bowl in the other, Kurt shuffled to the table. “Are there enough eggs for two?”  
  
“Yours are almost done,” Blaine replied. There was no reason he couldn't give Kurt the eggs he had planned to eat himself and make himself another batch.  
  
“You made me breakfast even though you expected I’d be sleeping?” Kurt asked skeptically, and Blaine grinned sheepishly at being caught. “You know you don’t have to make me breakfast every time I’m here. I can cook my own meals.”  
  
“I know you can, but you’re my guest. And besides – I like making things for you.” He glanced over to see how Kurt responded to that statement; some guys thought that was too clingy, too intimate in a world of ‘thanks man that was great see you at the baths’ mornings. Kurt simply offered a faint smile and continued sipping his coffee as Blaine set the plate in front of him.  
  
“You’re better than room service,” he joked.  
  
They fell into silence that would have been easy and comfortable had Blaine been in an easier or more comfortable mood. But the conversation from last night gnawed at him. Maybe he could tell Kurt what he should have said already. Maybe that would help him understand so they could move past it.  
  
What good would it do, really, he wondered. What if Sam was wrong about what Kurt needed to hear? Kurt  _had_  used the key and come by just to sleep beside him; if that wasn’t an indication that the man was ready for a relationship, Blaine didn’t think a better sign existed. If he kept dredging up the past, it would just keep them stuck there. And as they both knew, the last time they were in the past, the ending hadn’t been happy.  
  
But  _now_ …in this city, in this time, they were happy. He was  _happy_  in a way he hadn’t been in a very long time. There was no point in going back, in trying to fix the mistakes of decades ago when they both knew he hadn't had a choice. All it could possibly do was make them both upset and regretful over things that could have been, and there was no sense at all in wasting his second chance talking about how badly he had ruined his first one. He should focus -  _they_  should focus - on building new things together instead.  
  
“Tell me about New York,” he requested.   
  
Kurt paused mid-sip, eyebrows lowering slightly as he seemed to ponder what precisely Blaine was asking, but he lowered his coffee cup and offered a slight shrug. “It’s great.”  
  
“No, I mean…tell me about your life there. You’ve hardly told me anything about what you do."  
  
"Sure I have," Kurt replied. He still looked suspicious, like he wasn't sure where Blaine was going with this but he didn't like it. Was there some big secret he didn’t want to talk about? Blaine wondered Something in New York that Kurt thought might be uncovered if he poked around too much? Did he not want to delve into the present any more than the past? "I design unimaginative skirt sets that are two years behind-trend despite my best efforts." He rolled his eyes at his situation as he took another long sip of coffee, and Blaine smiled faintly at the image. The man before him had worn the same expression at 17 so often; it was oddly reassuring that even as everything else changed for the better, his lover had remained his snarky best.  
  
"You did tell me that part," Blaine agreed, if only so Kurt wouldn't think he didn't listen. He pulled out two more eggs to make his own breakfast and cracked them into the skillet. "And something about gowns for drag queens?"  
  
Kurt did light up a little at that, and he nodded. "A nice creative outlet. Besides, there's no point going to the balls if you're not going to be the best-dressed."  
  
"I'm sure you are," Blaine replied, and Kurt smirked, practically asking 'was there any doubt?' Some of it was bravado, the same mechanisms Kurt had employed for longer than they had known each other, but he could tell there was real pride there as well. "Do you ever think of giving up your other job and doing that full-time?"  
  
Kurt shook his head as he set down his mug. "I quit the other job to do this - and thank god I did, because one more orange polyester jacket would drive me up a wall. But I could never design for the 'girls' full-time. They couldn't afford me, I just volunteer. It's bad enough knowing what they do to pay for the materials. It would be like blood money to have them pay me for the labor too, especially if they had to pay enough for me to live off of. Besides – everyone needs a hobby."  
  
"What do they do?" Blaine asked, eyes widening. Kurt's words were dire but his tone dismissive, and he couldn't imagine what would be both at once.  
  
"Hideous old men," he replied flippantly with a light shudder and roll of his eyes. "Well - I shouldn't say that. Not all of them do. Crystelina does okay for herself because there's a nursing shortage so their pay keeps going up. And some of them sell things other than their asses, which isn't much better but they're hardly the only ones these days. But a few of my usuals, and a bunch of Ricky's friends he refers to me whenever they need something gorgeous and fast."  
  
Ricky. There was that name again. Was that the reason Kurt didn't want to talk too much about the other coast?  
  
Or was it just much more awful there than he thought?  
  
"I knew New York wasn't doing very well, but they have to hustle to get by?" he asked, the idea making him queasy. He knew vaguely that there were boys like that in San Francisco, too, but everyone he knew acted like that was more for fun than for profit. Almost a public service, really, now that sex could be more out in the open. Just because gay men could have sex with anyone they wanted without being arrested didn’t mean that every gay man could find someone. Some weren’t attractive enough for the guys they wanted to be with; some were just kind of creepy. Some were too old for the bevy of 20- and 30-somethings cruising the Castro every night. Among his circle of acquaintances, they joked that the nineteen-year-olds hanging out on the end of every bar were there to prove that money could buy happiness. He had never thought about what it must be like for the boys; in a neighbourhood where everyone wore sex as a badge of honour, he guessed it was kind of a commodity.   
  
Kurt shrugged. "Off and on. It's a lot better than it used to be. When I first moved there, none of them could have gotten legitimate jobs. Between awful pockets of racism and not being able to run our own bars and raids, it would've been impossible. Now it's more like an option - kind of like working overtime around the holidays to buy more presents, only these presents are sequinned. At least that's how Ricky does it. I've learned not to ask."  
  
So it wasn't just this Ricky's friends who did that, it was this Ricky himself? Did Kurt really have no more self-respect than that? He certainly was attractive enough that he didn’t need to buy himself a companion.  
  
Oh god, what if Kurt did that too? What if his job wasn't enough - he clearly wasn't high enough on the ladder to make the decisions he wanted, and Blaine had no idea what salaries were like for fashion designers. Were they like artists in more ways than just their creativity? Were their salaries similarly nonexistent?   
  
And even if he was financially better off now - which Blaine had no idea really, since Mercedes' record company seemed to be footing the bill for everything these days - had it been that dire back when Kurt first moved there? Obviously what Kurt had said about racism didn't apply to him, but homosexuals had certainly been unpalatable back then and, at least according to men he'd heard his father speak of, couldn't get a job at all if anyone knew.  
  
Blaine swallowed hard at the thought of creepy old men and Kurt -  _his_  Kurt- "Did you-...I mean, do you...work overtime to buy more presents?" he ventured, trying to tiptoe carefully around the words. He didn't judge Kurt if that was what he had to do if it was a matter of necessity, but at the same time the idea of Kurt needing to do  _that_  was so vile that he could barely stand it.  
  
Kurt blinked, looking at him sideways, then burst out laughing. "You should see yourself right now."  
  
"What?"  
  
"No, I don't - but it's been a long time since I've seen anyone with quite that mix of horror and trying not to look horrified. It's so midwestern." Blaine felt like he should be offended by that, but he was too busy being relieved. "I do well. Not Halston well, but well enough that for awhile I had a spare room and didn't have to let it.”  
  
“A spare room?”  
  
“Yeah - Rachel’s,” Kurt replied, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what it was that Blaine didn’t understand about the statement, then he added his cultural translation, “In New York, that’s practically a sign of ostentatious wealth. You may as well have gold ceilings or inlay tile flooring to have enough money for a spare bedroom.”  
  
“ _Oh._  Right. Here too,” Blaine replied, then corrected, “Well, at home. I’d guess the same is true here, but I have no idea. We didn’t really talk about the financial part before making the housing swap, there were other reasons.”  
  
“Like what?” Kurt asked, and Blaine felt himself suddenly uneasy as the conversation shifted to his own situation.  
  
What if Kurt thought he was just running away again? Abandoning his problems by dashing off to another city? Also were they at the point where they could – or should – talk about other lovers? They hadn’t really talked about that yet…either the topic or whether they should talk about it. In a normal relationship, he would say it was too soon – assuming Kurt was the sort of man who talked about sexual history at all, which most men weren’t these days. But this was far from a normal relationship for so many reasons… He turned and busied himself at the stove, checking and rechecking the eggs. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Why’d you pack up and move into some other guy’s apartment?”  
  
“A friend of a friend knew him and knew he wanted to try San Francisco,” Blaine tried, but Kurt’s piercing, ever-skeptical gaze saw through him. “I needed a break. In New York is it ever…you see the same people every night, all rotating through playing with each other, like the world’s worst key party? Only instead of going home with the person they came with, everyone’s looking for the next new thing, the next boy straight off the bus from wherever, the new toy, and then they bolt the second things start to get serious, like  _maybe_  they might actually  _feel_  something for another person, because God forbid something get in the way of finding a fresh trick every night?”  
  
Kurt covered a laugh, then observed, “So someone broke up with you.”  
  
It seemed so simple when Kurt put it like that, and Blaine deflated a little. “Yeah,” he admitted as he transferred his eggs onto a plate and sat across from Kurt.  
  
“You could have just said that.”  
  
“I wasn’t sure if we were there yet,” Blaine explained, and when Kurt looked puzzled, he added, “Talking about other men.”  
  
Kurt shrugged. “I’ve never thought of that as being a particular point in a relationship.”  
  
That didn’t answer the question that was burning at him, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “So should we talk about Ricky?”  
  
Kurt blinked, confused. “What?”  
  
“How serious is it?”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
Why was Kurt looking at him like he’d grown a second head or four extra arms? “Are you living together?”  
  
“Not for a decade,” Kurt replied slowly, seeming more confused with each passing question.  
  
Blaine drew in a deep breath. “So it’s long-term but…it didn’t work out? Or…?”  
  
“Blaine. What the hell are you trying to ask?”  
  
“Are you and he- Look, it’s none of my business what your relationship looks like. It’s nobody’s business but yours and his. But I’m not comfortable being some out-of-state fling. I understand that’s the culture now, I appreciate why it’s there and it’s better than the alternative, but it’s not for me. If I’m with someone, I’m with them, and if you’re not then maybe we can’t- Why are you looking at me like that?”  
  
“You think Ricky’s my lover,” Kurt surmised slowly with an unreadable expression.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Ricky.”  
  
“…Yes?”  
  
“No. God no,” he replied, clearly trying not to laugh, and Blaine wasn’t sure whether to be relieved at the fact or indignant that Kurt found his question so ridiculous. “I mean, we tried once, but we were both way too drunk and not nearly butch enough and we never got past awkward, sloppy fooling around.” Kurt rolled his eyes and shuddered at the memory. “Ricky’s just- it seems wrong to say he’s ‘just’ anything. He’s my best friend. He’s everything. …Everything but  _that_.”  
  
“Really?” He didn’t know that he’d ever heard a man describe another man that way, certainly not a man who wasn’t his lover.  
  
“You seem surprised.”  
  
“No. Well, a little. It’s not what I expected, that’s all. I think it’s great. Refreshing, even.”  
  
“What? Having a best friend?”  
  
“Yes,” Blaine admitted, but as Kurt’s gaze turned piteous he amended his statement, “I have friends, guys from work I get together with, and they’re fantastic. I just wouldn’t describe any of them that strongly. It sounds…really nice.”  
  
Things hadn’t changed that much, had they? Blaine realized with unexpected sadness. Kurt had always been someone who had best friends. When they were teenagers, Kurt and Mercedes had been as inseparable as the two of them could be in those days, and then Rachel who apparently had lived with him for awhile, now Ricky… meanwhile he had groups of people he spent time with, but he didn’t know that he could call any of them a best friend. It had always kind of been that way – he’d been popular enough, a good leader, that he’d never been alone or isolated unless he chose to be, but the only times he could remember having that share-everything kind of relationship with someone else had been with lovers. With Kurt, with Peter, with Jack…  
  
It must be nice having someone like that. Lovers came and went, but a best friend who stayed forever…  
  
“I’m glad you have that,” he added.  
  
“So am I,” Kurt replied. “It would’ve been unbearable without him.”  
  
“What would have been?”  
  
Kurt’s expression closed off and he gave a quick shake of his head as he dug into his eggs with the side of his fork. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s eat.”  
  
"Kurt, what-"  
  
"You know, these are the perfect texture. It's so easy to overcook them," he said, fork resting between his fingers as he studied the speared piece of egg on the tines.   
  
Blaine wasn't sure what line he had crossed, but clearly he had. Something about Ricky being there and whatever had been 'unbearable' had thrown Kurt's walls up almost instantaneously, and just like that Blaine was back to wondering if Kurt really trusted him at all.  
  
Maybe it had nothing to do with him, he reminded himself, trying not to worry. Some things were just painful to relive. The thought of trying to re-utter the apology he had murmured to Kurt's sleeping form the night before made his stomach jerk and flutter, and he had already managed to say it once.  
  
Staying in the present was definitely the way to go. Kurt didn't want to dive into the past any more than he did; clearly it had been painful for them both, though presumably for different reasons. But for both of their sakes, it seemed safest to steer clear of the topic.  
  
Besides, why would he want to talk about something that made Kurt look so unhappy when he could watch the man light up instead?  
  
"Tell me about the balls."  
  
Kurt blinked, confused, mind seeming to go a mile a minute as his eyebrows knitted together. "What?"  
  
"The- is that what you called them? - the balls you design for."  
  
"...What about them?" Kurt asked suspiciously, and Blaine kicked himself for having asked about whatever was 'unbearable' in New York; it would take more than a change of subject to lower those walls. Of course Kurt wasn't as easily distracted as Sam had been the night before.   
  
He hated to think about why Kurt couldn't just accept a life-raft question designed to save them both from a conversation they had no business being in - about why Kurt had come by his skepticism honestly. What kind of world must his lover live in that questions designed to deflect from something unpleasant were still seen as having a sinister agenda?  
  
"I don't know," he admitted, "Tell me about...your favourite thing you've made."  
  
Kurt looked puzzled for another moment, then almost laughed to himself as he seemed to understand why Blaine was asking. "Right - okay," he nodded. "I don't know if I could pick a favourite," he admitted, "but I should see if Ricky can send me pictures, because there are some gorgeous pieces. There's a reason everyone knows us."  
  
"You're famous?"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't go that far. Infamous maybe," he admitted with a smirk. "Ricky wins quite a bit."  
  
"What does he win?"  
  
"Bragging rights."  
  
"No, I meant- is it for the costuming, or-"  
  
"Not exactly," Kurt replied, thinking a moment about how to explain it. "It's more about the walk, but you want to turn heads for all the right reasons and the gowns are a part of that."  
  
Kurt turned heads for all the right reasons just standing still, Blaine thought to himself with a faint admiring smile. But the idea of his lover in a gown was off-putting - a bra stuffed with something instead of the flat planes of his torso, the illusion of broad hips instead of his slim profile and perfectly-proportioned ass...he was sure Kurt would look great if he wanted to, but something about it felt like hiding somehow. Like trying to create an illusion so two men could walk down the street together undetected.  
  
He knew most people would assume there wasn't much difference between Kurt and a woman, but he knew from experience the divide between the two was an enormous chasm. If there weren't, his twenties would have been so much easier.   
  
"So do you...dress up?"  
  
"Of course - everyone has to look sharp. Sharper than usual, in my case," he added with a smirk, but it faded as he realized the question Blaine was really asking. "Not usually. Every so often - and with the way Milan does makeup, I look pretty good if I do say so myself - but it's not..." he paused, thinking again, then admitted, "They like the way it makes them feel. I don't. I would much rather wear something fabulously unconventional, that's when I feel the most like me." He rolled his eyes at himself and shook his head, smiling faintly as he admitted, "I know that's a dumb thing to say-"  
  
"Not at all," Blaine replied quietly, unable to stop himself from smiling as he gazed at the man across from him. "I think 'fabulously unconventional' suits you perfectly."   
  
Kurt tried to brush off the comment, but just beneath the dismissive exterior was clear pride and reassurance. Whatever he could do to keep that look, Blaine vowed, whatever conversations he needed to have about whatever decade to keep that expression on Kurt's face...that was what he would do.


	11. Chapter 11

The [French Quarter](http://www.frontiersmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/French-Market-place-e1427826395425.jpg) stood unassumingly at the corner of Santa Monica and a street the name of which Kurt had already forgotten, looking like Dr. Frankenstein's restaurant: a hodgepodge of art deco details painted garish yellow, a bay window atop brick that had clearly been added sometime later, and wrought iron railings encircling an awning-covered [seating area](https://www.kcet.org/sites/kl/files/thumbnails/image/french_market_inside_and_out.jpg) recessed from the sidewalk. Still, there was something about sidewalk seating that made Kurt feel at home - even if the streets were far too wide and cars flew past at around 30 miles per hour, a far cry from the taxi cab crawl he was used to back home.   
  
But for all the conflicting styles outside, the [inside](http://antebellumgallery.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-french-market-place-end-of-gay.html?zx=84565b8a4cff68c6) was a true contrast. Past the entryway and a smattering of tables, the space opened up into a manufactured courtyard, with a navy-painted ceiling above and burnt orange octagonal tile below. Two stories of tables and chairs in white curlicued wrought iron were full of diners chatting, the sound echoing quietly through the opulent space that felt much larger than the exterior of the building would have suggested.   
  
He wasn't sure how Blaine had convinced the maitre d' to give them a table inside [the gazebo](https://www.kcet.org/sites/kl/files/thumbnails/image/french_market_inside_and_out.jpg) - or whose idea it had been to put a gazebo indoors between the two levels - but he couldn't have asked for a better view. Even the best sidewalk table would have paled in comparison.  
  
"Are Liesl and Rolf going to dance past our table before dessert?" he asked as he laid his knife and fork carefully along the rim of his plate.   
  
Blaine grinned - though Kurt wasn't sure whether at the joke or the meal they had just consumed - as he leaned forward, chin resting in his hand. "I'm glad to know you've seen the movie."  
  
"Only every year at Christmas. I'm not sure why tv producers think a movie about running from the Nazis is a holiday classic, but I'm just glad they play it that often."  
  
"Me too. A few of us from school usually get together and sing along," Blaine admitted.  
  
"Really?" It was the first Blaine had mentioned having friends, let alone friends who would enjoy a good singalong, and Kurt was glad to hear it. The way Blaine talked about life in San Francisco had a tendency to come across as bleak to anyone fluent in the Midwestern 'buck up' spirit, and he hated to think of the man sitting alone in an apartment whenever he wasn't dating anyone. Blaine nodded, and Kurt offered, "It's usually just Rachel and I. Sometimes whichever of her chorus friends she's not feeling threatened by."  
  
"Not Ricky and the others?"  
  
Kurt shook his head. "Not their thing - none of them are that musical, it's more about dancing. He's seen it. I think he's who went with me when it was in theatres..." he realized midway through the statement that he couldn't remember for sure who had been with him. He remembered seeing the film, of course, and he could remember where, and he remembered enough to know that he hadn't actually been alone...but mostly he remembered imagining Blaine beside him in the darkened theatre, a ghost of a memory reaching over to squeeze his hand during any pause, then vanishing entirely when the wedding came and went without "An Ordinary Couple." He had been so heartbroken to hear that song relegated to the dustheap of musical history, replaced by a song about - essentially - karmic loveability.   
  
He wanted to ask if Blaine had noticed the song missing, or if he even remembered the song's significance. Maybe Kurt had just played it over in his mind so many times that it took on more meaning for him that Blaine had never attached to it.  
  
But there was no point in that. It was a long time ago and didn't make a difference anymore.  
  
"Anyway. He says he doesn't need to see any four-hour movie more than once," Kurt concluded, shrugging it off. "Are we getting dessert?"  
  
Blaine blinked a moment, seeming thrown by the sudden shift in topic, and responded, "If you want."  
  
"The bread pudding smells fantastic - every time a waiter walks past with one..."   
  
"Then let's get it," Blaine replied, looking around to subtly flag down a waiter. By the time they had placed their order and the empty entree plates had been cleared, the gnawing feeling that went along with so many old memories had dissipated, and Kurt was able to relax and gaze at the diners below them. Groups of clearly-gay friends crowded around tables, talking excitedly about the night ahead or their plans for the weekend that Kurt could grasp only from a handful of words or phrases that floated up to their iron-encircled perch: Studio One, parade, baths, dance, gorgeous man...he smiled faintly to himself. Despite the spacious environment, and except for the lack of accent, it could have been any restaurant back home this time of year.  
  
"What time do things start tomorrow?" Blaine asked, and Kurt turned his attention back to the table. "If it's anything like home, we should get there early for a good spot."  
  
"You go to Liberation Day?" Kurt asked, surprised.   
  
Blaine looked at him like it was a silly question. "Every year. It's 'Freedom Day' there though. I think here, too, it might be one of those Christopher Street East/Christopher Street West things."  
  
"They call it Christopher Street West?" he tried not to laugh to himself. "One of a handful of streets in New York without a direction attached to it, and they add it - in the wrong place."  
  
"I'm not sure most of them would know," Blaine offered with a shrug. "'Liberation Day' - it sounds strange if you're not used to it, doesn't it?"  
  
"I suppose. I like it better than 'Freedom Day.' That makes it sound like it's just celebrating that freedom exists. 'Liberation Day' makes clear it was something that had to be fought for." Maybe that was why they called it 'Liberation' in New York, Kurt guessed - on the West Coast the liberty had appeared over time, but at home they had warred on the streets for days. Like the difference between calling July Fourth "America Day" or "Independence Day."   
  
"We aren't just free - were liberated," Blaine concluded with a faint smile as he nodded to himself. "If you think of it another way, though, 'free' implies we always were - or at least always should have been. 'Liberated' gives someone else the power and authority over our existence: someone else has to liberate you."  
  
"We liberated ourselves," Kurt replied, unable to hide the note of pride in his voice. Even seven years later, the memory of the surge of power he'd felt that night was intoxicating - shouting everything he had kept bottled up for a decade at the police who had tormented them, the breathlessly giddy exhilaration of it all...  
  
Blaine paused a moment, then his eyes widened in sudden realization and leaned forward with rapt interest. "You were there, weren't you?"  
  
His enthusiasm caught Kurt off-guard; it bordered on reverence, even, the way Milan reacted when she found out Mercedes' brother had been at the March on Washington. He might have expected it from someone else, but Blaine? "Yeah - every night," he replied cautiously.  
  
"When it started?"  
  
Kurt nodded. "We used to hang out in the back corner. They didn't like Ricky in the front room, it was all buttoned-up and 'respectable'. How respectable can you be when you're skulking around the village in a trenchcoat and going into bars with boarded up windows where no one will see you? Anyway. We went over after he closed up for the night, which turned out to be good because it meant he wasn't wearing a dress."  
  
"Cross-dressing laws?" Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded.  
  
"Anyone in women's clothing got pulled into the women's room by a female officer to figure out whether they were a 'legitimate' woman or not." He rolled his eyes. "Even if you knew - I mean, most of them it wasn't hard to tell, but it was another way to humiliate people in the process. Anyway - all of a sudden someone refused to go. I know half a dozen queens who claim they were the one, but I didn't see who objected first. But then more objected, like someone breaking the silence gave us all permission to tell them to knock it off." He still didn't know why that one 'fuck no!' carried over the din had convinced more of them to stand up for themselves, as though a decade's worth of being pushed around hadn't been more than enough. But that twinge of something he felt when he heard it had been like a breath of fresh air in the stale, over-lit bar.   
  
"I was used to just handing over my license and walking out. I don't know how it was out here, but it happened so often there that I didn't-" he paused, not sure how to explain. In retrospect, he hated knowing how often he had just followed their instructions and let the police do something he knew was wrong. He couldn't pinpoint when he had gone from terrified of raids to accepting them as a fact of life, and he wished he could go back in time and shake that acceptance out of himself. How much faster could the riots have happened if they had all said 'fuck no' sooner? How many more years of liberation could there have been?  
  
"...you went along because it was too exhausting to fight," Blaine offered gently, and Kurt wanted to argue but couldn't.  
  
"Existing was fighting," he corrected, and Blaine nodded sympathetically. "And showing your ID then leaving was so much better than it had been that we just..." He shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes at his own complacency. "But once the scare queens were fighting - and they had  _everything_  to lose. They were going to be arrested, not one of them had more than five dollars to her name or anyone to post bail...there was no way I could cooperate. It felt like that kind of rumbled through the line, because all of a sudden people were doing what I'd only been thinking about doing - I hadn't said anything, neither had Ricky, but they'd all come to the same conclusion. A few of the officers said they were going to take everyone in if we didn't cooperate, but I knew they couldn't fit all of us unless they called a half-dozen more paddy-wagons, and that would take time so we were safe as long as we stood our ground.  
  
"I don't remember how, exactly, but they let us out of the bar, and I reached back to grab Ricky's arm and make sure he made it out safely and wasn't being held somewhere...and when I looked up, I saw this crowd gathering. Normally as soon as they let people out everyone scattered - who sticks around while the police are there if they're not handcuffing you? But they were watching the police load up all the alcohol and shouting at them. One officer shoved a guy a little older than me, and instead of scurrying away...he stood up taller and did a mock salute - and I do mean a  _mock_  salute, this mix of limp and ramrod straight, and lisped 'Excuse me, officer!' as hard as he could." He didn't think he could explain how seeing that had made him feel, and he needed to - otherwise the rest of the story wouldn't make any sense. How could seeing someone make fun of himself help cause a riot? But in that moment, it had stirred something in him that he still couldn't place. "...I know it's silly, but that moment was...huge," he tried to explain.  
  
Blaine leaned forward and touched his hand. "It's not silly," he insisted. "I wish I had been there."  
  
It took everything in him not to pull away in surprise and skepticism. "You do," he asked, eyebrows raised.  
  
"Are you kidding? It sounds amazing. Terrifying at the time, I'm sure, but exhilarating - to stand up to people who had been harassing you for so long, to say 'this is who I am, and I have every right to be'?"  
  
Kurt wasn't sure why he was so stunned to hear Blaine say it - clearly things were different now than they had been 15 years earlier, and the man in front of him was undisputably a world away from the boy he had known. On a date in public, in a space with dozens of fellow happy homosexuals...but he supposed the real surprise wasn't just that Blaine was able to enjoy the spoils of freedom, but that he wished he had been part of the battle to win them. He knew people who were jealous they hadn't been there that night with him and Ricky, people who moved to New York a few years later...  
  
Don liked to joke that he wished Kurt had called them to get down there, but they all knew he wouldn't have come. It was too riotous, too flamboyant, all the papers had said so.  
  
At the time, he had felt something change, but it was much starker in hindsight. Those evenings, chasing police and each other around the dimly-lit maze of alleys and cross-streets, had felt like an adventure, but not nearly as life-changing as the events became. "It didn't feel like that until later,' he offered nonchalantly. "It was  _fun_ , but I definitely didn't think the world changed overnight or anything. I figured we'd have our catharsis, but within a few weeks they'd be back to the same raids and waiting in line to show our IDs again. Or maybe they'd use it as an excuse to shut down a handful of bars - they did that a lot. But then..."   
  
He paused, not sure how to explain the way everything had opened up so suddenly. "Yes, there was more hope, and in retrospect I like to think we all walked a little taller, but I remember the First Run where we all sprinted to the end of the parade route because we were afraid of people throwing things at our heads - or shooting us, it  _is_  New York," he babbled as he tried to come up with a way of explaining how everything had changed and nothing had changed all the same. No new bars opened but suddenly they were everywhere; the police kept raiding but then they stopped. Everything continued being as dreary as it had ever been until suddenly it wasn't, and the only concrete way he could think of to explain it was...well, a little obscure, he feared, and probably the least important thing going on in New York at the time.  
  
"You've heard of 'The Boys in the Band'?" Kurt asked, and Blaine nodded with a look Kurt couldn't quite pin down. "It opened as a play in 68, at this tiny theatre downtown that mostly did obscure artsy pieces. But Rachel and I went, and it was...amazing. Here were men, homosexual-  _gay_  men, talking openly about being another man's lover, about loving a man, about the ways it was unbearably hard sometimes. All sorts of guys, too. They didn't tiptoe around the fact that these men had sex, which was practically a miracle because we thought for sure that was grounds enough to get raided. We loved it - I saw it six times. They extended the run, they had a ton of demand from the community because we were desperate to see men who looked and sounded like us being portrayed in something other than a news piece about how we'd all end up in jail. The response was so huge that they rushed to make it into a movie, but by the time it came out in...70? I think. By the time the movie came out, everyone hated it. They barely changed a word, and it was all the same actors, but everyone hated it. It felt so backwards, so  _depressing_  they all said. These men were miserable. In a year and a half, we went from just being happy that male actors could deliver lines about bedding someone who wasn't a woman, to insisting we should get happy endings. The line about 'show me a happy homosexual and I'll show you a gay corpse' ... How can something be antiquated in a year and a half?" He took a long sip of his water, but paused - lips still on the rim, as Blaine spoke.  
  
"I loved that movie."  
  
He lowered his glass slowly as he asked, "Really?"  
  
"Obviously I hadn't seen the play, which might have been better, but I saw it when it came out. Most of it was okay - I didn't really understand why the two guys who were together weren't quite  _together_ , and Emory could be a little much, but there's a [speech](https://youtu.be/gCKOcI6jyuw?t=8m57s) at the end..."  
  
"Which one?" There had always been too many speeches for his taste, certainly once it became a film instead of a play. And the telephone game was kind of dated already.  
  
"Harold's to Michael - that he's a homosexual and he doesn't want to be." Blaine's gaze grew distant as he quietly quoted the passage. "'But there's nothing you can do to stop it - not all your prayers to your god, not all the analysis you can buy in all the years you've got left to live. You may very well one day be able to know a heterosexual life, if you want it desperately enough, if you pursue it with the fervor with which you annihilate. But you'll always be a homosexual as well-'"  
  
"'Always. Until the day you die,'" Kurt finished the quote with him, suddenly seeing why that passage would mean so much to the young man. For someone who had tried desperately to talk himself out of being, who had run to the other side the country to get away from the truth, who had - Kurt was sure - dated and bedded countless women...he could imagine the speech would be either terrifying or reassuring. Obviously for Blaine it was the latter. "...There was nothing you could do about it," he concluded quietly, and Blaine nodded, offering a faint self-deprecating smile.  
  
"Not a darn thing," he agreed. "I knew that by the time I saw the movie - I'd known for years, I don't want you to think- It's been much more than six years. But hearing that, in a room full of men in the Castro Theatre, was so..."  
  
"Empowering."  
  
"Liberating," Blaine corrected with a wistful grin. "Empowered, I had done by then. I knew by then that I was who I was - who I  _am_  - and no amount of trying to get drunk with girls was going to make me happy. But hearing that, hearing confirmation that it wasn't a failure of trying - it wasn't that I hadn't done  _enough_ , it's that there  _was_  no 'enough' that I could have done." He shrugged it off, almost trying to push the past away where it belonged, but Kurt couldn't help but see the regret in his eyes. He couldn't be sure regret of what, exactly, whether it was regret that it had taken so long or that he hadn't known instinctively...but there was also a resignation about him, as though Blaine wished so badly that things could be different but knew even if he were to go back in time he would do the same thing over.  
  
He knew that feeling better than he wanted to admit.  
  
"You couldn't do anything about it," Kurt tried to reassure him, not sure whether he was trying to console Blaine or drive the statement like a wedge through his memories. He had grown enough to know that Blaine had absolutely done the best he could at eighteen years old and that there was nothing more in the world he should have the right to expect from an adolescent trying to figure out his way in the world. He knew that, but the part in the back of his mind still tried to lead him down that path every chance he got.  
  
And even if Blaine could have done something more at the time, even if he wasn't willing to concede that point, hadn't the man done enough to make up for it now? They were on a date in an adorable - if really strange - restaurant, with Blaine touching his hand in public and making no attempt to hide the fact that they were on a date. He was saying the word 'homosexual' in public and quoting one of the only truly gay films - not campy gay but actually  _gay_  - and talking about how he wished he had been at Stonewall. At  _Stonewall_  of all places. The rule-follower who was terrified to challenge segregation even when no one would have known or been able to prove that he wasn't entirely white, wished he could have thrown bottles at police officers while they enforced an unjust law.  
  
No one could look at Blaine now and say he was the same man he had been then. He had grown by such leaps and bounds in the past sixteen years...and if he had changed enough that Kurt had been willing to consider dating him as a 'whole new person', shouldn't he have changed enough to earn forgiveness?  
  
He was working on it. He wasn't there yet. But as long as Blaine kept wanting to take him to dinner, he would keep trying.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Gay Freedom Day dawned just warm enough that seemingly half the men in attendance felt the need to remove their shirts. [Blaine (in A)](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2015/06/15/08/29A0010900000578-3124079-Everyday_or_fancy_dress_Though_the_men_on_the_left_look_ready_fo-a-3_1434354842409.jpg) was, however, a little sad to see that, unlike at home where a lack of nudity laws made for a better view, everyone was wearing shorts. ...except for those wearing skirts, of course.  
  
He was sure he had the hottest lover there, and judging by the number of stares in their direction he wasn't alone in that assessment. Of course, it probably helped that Kurt had opted for a long vest that almost entirely covered his shorts and made it look like he might be leaving little to the imagination. He had started to point it out while they got ready, but from the man's smirk Blaine was pretty sure that he knew exactly what he was doing.  
  
Maybe this was why he didn't have a lover in New York. The jealousy of everyone else staring and wanting Kurt Hummel could do in any man.   
  
With the way Kurt pressed close to him in the crowd, though, he couldn't be too worried.  
  
The turnout was a little smaller than San Francisco's in the past few years, but not by much, and the atmosphere was a little tamer than he was used to...though most places were, compared to the most festive day of the year back home. Still, the feeling was the same. Exuberant first-timers gawked at every float - and every shirtless man - with breathless joy. Women in Levis and leather leaned and posed against fenceposts, trying to look nonchalant. Men cruised their way through the crowds, searching for the first of many temporary partners for the day. Couples strolled hand-in-hand down the street casually, as though it were something a person saw every day of the week.  
  
As they approached the carnival at the corner of Sunset and Cherokee, Kurt started to veer away down the street. "You don't want to go? Just because we're not kids anymore doesn't mean we can't have fun," Blaine pointed out with a grin.  
  
"What do you mean? Go where?" When Blaine gestured toward the ferris wheel that stretched up toward the midday sun, Kurt looked even more confused. "Wait - that's part of it?"  
  
"Yeah, silly, the carnival." When Kurt didn't show any more recognition at the response, eyebrows knitting further together, he asked, "Do you not have one in New York?"  
  
"Carnivals, sure, but not at Liberation Day."  
  
"Where do you go after the parade?"  
  
"To clubs?" he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Well, to Ricky's to get ready, then to the clubs."  
  
"Where do other people go?"  
  
Kurt shrugged. "Other bars."  
  
"But that's what happens every weekend," Blaine replied, grabbing his hand and tugging him playfully toward the crowd. "Freedom Day should be special."  
  
"It already is even without - ooo, let's get churros," Kurt suggested as they passed a stand, the air in front of them practically thick with cinnamon and the chatter of eager couples around them.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He knew Kurt would probably say he was being overly sentimental, but there was something amazing about being perched atop a ferris wheel, feeling the bucket sway gently, and staring out over the waning festivities. The pale twilight grey-blue of the sky except where the corona of sunlight gleamed behind a skyscraper to the West, the scent of fair food wafting up toward them on a light breeze, the comfortable weight of his lover's head on his shoulder...   
  
A stereo below pumped out a  **[song](https://youtu.be/FLzbKm56dLI)**  they had heard at least a dozen times already today, and he couldn't help but smile as he felt Kurt lip-syncing along, the man's jaw and chin shifting against his deltoid.  
  
For a moment, he could imagine them younger - two teenage boys riding a ferris wheel at a county fair or end-of-year school festival, teasing each other and rocking the seats to make each other laugh just like any other couple, like something out of a musical comedy about the Fifties that Kurt liked to make fun of but he thought seemed kind of nice if a little inaccurate.   
  
He would have loved to have had that. But in a way - in so many ways, really - this was better.   
  
He wrapped his arm around Kurt's shoulders and beamed as the man he loved snuggled closer. He appreciated this so much more than he would have had he always known this kind of freedom, this liberation. Would any teenager now appreciate this simple pleasure as much as he could? Part of him wondered whether that was for the best, to spare people the pain he had gone through at the cost of this sense of intense joy and comfort and security. But that was the goal now, wasn't it? At least for him, at least on a personal level, that was part of what he tried to do when he didn't shy away from students' questions or hide in shadows in the Castro. To break down that sense of isolation and fear he'd felt so strongly, to let it all be so gloriously, blissfully  _normal_  to be a boy who wanted to date a boy or a man who loved a man.  
  
Even with the crowds thinning, off to dinner or bars as the sun fell below the horizon, there were still so many of them on the asphalt below, so many people who had gone through what he had, who had felt the same way, but who had made it. Who hadn't fallen prey to his father or to priests or to their own terror and self-hatred. And here, in a parking lot on a late-summer evening, they danced together as though they'd never had a care in the world-  
  
No; that wasn't right. They danced together like they had lost and feared and struggled just as deeply as he had, but like they had been set free.  
  
He held Kurt a little tighter, his cheek resting on chestnut hair, singing along quietly to the song so only he and his lover could hear.  
  
 _Oh, baby, my heart is full of love and desire for you.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to use the song. Not only is it time-appropriate, but every gay man I know has a story involving this song, myself included. I planned to use it in this fic long before they ever used it on the show, that's how ubiquitous it is.


	12. Chapter 12

"If you don't stand still, I'm going to stab you again," Kurt warned. Mercedes huffed and rolled her eyes, but she made an effort to stand a little straighter and stiffer.  
  
"I need to make sure it'll move."  
  
"You can do that after the pins are out of it. I need to make sure it'll fit your boobs," he replied, his tone even and slightly distracted as he carefully pinched and shifted the gold fabric. He paused every so often to shift back onto his heels and consider the bigger picture, then resumed his adjustments.  
  
"Are you saying they're too big?" she teased.  
  
"I'm saying you can't take out some stuffing if they are," he replied. "Do you want it me to cut the neckline a little lower?"  
  
Mercedes looked past him to her reflection in the mirror. "No, it's fine here."  
  
"It's practically a turtleneck," he lamented, and she self-consciously brought her fingers up to touch the top of the fabric, as though making sure she knew where it skimmed across her collarbones.   
  
"Well I'm not wearing it down to the waist. I'm not one of those 19 year olds - I have to wear a bra under this," she pointed out, and Kurt tilted his head from side to side in consideration, then nodded.  
  
"Those are the two options right now, aren't they?" he agreed. "Can I at least take it in more around the hips?"  
  
"If you want," she replied as she stood with her arms out at a 45 degree angle. She was well-practiced at this by now - they needed to be away from her sides, but straight out or forward would pull the dress up and result in Kurt pinning the shape of her hips somewhere around her thighs.   
  
"Thank you. Caftans may be comfortable, but they don't do anyone any favours. And you have such a great figure, Mercedes."   
  
She rolled her eyes at his statement the same way she had for 20 years. It was the sort of thing that was nice of him to say but didn't mean a whole lot, like someone's mother telling them they were beautiful. Still, Kurt did have a knack for bringing out her favourite parts of herself. She could understand why that group of boys liked the things he made so much - he had a gift for accentuating and minimizing exactly what needed to be.   
  
"How are things going anyway? I feel like I see you even less than when I was in New York?" he asked.  
  
"That's because you're always with Blaine," she teased. "How's that going?"  
  
"I asked first," he replied, but she could tell from his blushing grin that things were good.   
  
In truth, she wasn't sure how they were going. Marvin ran so hot and cold sometimes - not in his temperament, he was always nice enough and even-keeled, but in his opinions. He loved and hated things but played the reasons why so close to the vest that she could never quite figure out what made him pick one thing over another. Songs in particular, which made putting together a set list or brainstorming an album difficult.   
  
But talking about everything else went well - they'd spent half the night telling stories about dumb things their siblings had done once, until her sides had almost split from laughing.   
  
"They're okay," she replied simply.   
  
Kurt stopped pinning and looked up at her skeptically. "That's all I get?" he asked. "C'mon, Mercedes, dish."  
  
"I have no idea," she replied honestly. "Marvin clearly has a vision in his head of what should be going on, but he doesn't share it with me so I have no idea where we are on everything."   
  
"Maybe you need to call the label and talk to them. That guy's-"  
  
"I know you don't like him," she interrupted, "But he's a lot nicer than you think."  
  
"To you maybe," Kurt rolled his eyes, then stopped. "...You like him?"  
  
"Sure." Kurt raised an eyebrow, and she knew exactly what he meant by it. "Not like that," she protested. "I think he's decent is all. And funny. And he calls his Mama every Sunday after church - no one who does that can be too bad. But that's all. He's nice. I just wish he would tell me what he's thinking."  
  
"Yeah, I get that," Kurt mumbled in response as he went back to pinning.   
  
"Trouble with Blaine?"  
  
"We're talking about you," he protested, but when she didn't readily return to talking about Marvin, he explained, "Maybe. I don't think so. He's clearly different than he was - in the best way. Everything I could have wanted when we were together before. He's comfortable with himself, he's eager, he's not so closed off. But it doesn't fix everything."  
  
"Of course not. You were hurt by it." When he rolled his eyes, she offered, "I don't think I'd be able to see any of the girls from my old group without being furious at them."  
  
"And none of them made it in music, but you play arenas," Kurt supplied.   
  
She smiled faintly and nodded. "Betrayal isn't easy to get over. But maybe you need to forgive him anyway."  
  
"You haven't forgiven them."  
  
"I don't need to; God does," she replied, and Kurt rolled his eyes exactly the way she expected him to. "I'm not getting back into a group with them. I don't have to see them or think about them. You're dating him."  
  
"Maybe," he allowed. "It's just-"   
  
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Kurt stood, smoothed his pants, and nudged past her to open the door. "I tried Mercedes' room, is she-" Marvin asked, and Mercedes shuffled her way around to face him.   
  
"Hey, Marvin, whatcha need?" she asked. There was an odd look on his face that she couldn't quite place but that made her stomach flutter.   
  
"I got a few new demos from the songwriter I thought we could listen to together."  
  
"I'll come to your room when we're done," she replied.  
  
"How long, do you think?"  
  
She looked over at Kurt and asked, "Fifteen, maybe? He's just pinning in the hips a little."  
  
"Then the hem," Kurt started to add, but Marvin spoke first:  
  
"Good. You've got a great figure, you shouldn't hide it under a tent of a dress." She blushed and glanced away but could feel herself grinning at the compliment.   
  
* * * * *  
  
Blaine hadn't always believed in genuine perfection.   
  
Anything flawless had to be artificial, he had believed - as unreal as a smooth wax apple in a display that was never meant to be eaten. There could be ideal scenarios, best outcomes, moments of unmarred and untainted happiness, but anything more superlative required a fakeness that spoiled the whole thing. A forcedness. A manipulation of things to create the illusion of serendipity, rendering it cold and stiff.  
  
But spending a Tuesday afternoon draped nude across the sofa, limbs tangled lazily with the most handsome lover he could imagine, covered only in a hastily-draped afghan more to preserve warmth against a breeze than for modesty's sake, while one of the [most revolutionary albums of the century](https://youtu.be/7w7ZeSIC6K0) played on the nearby turntable? Blaine didn't think anything could be more perfect.  
  
"You know, when most people list the albums that make them horny, Brian Wilson is nowhere to be found," Kurt commented with a sly smirk. "Let alone anything with 'pets' in the title."  
  
Blaine blushed a bit, and he mimicked swatting his lover with a pillow as he grinned. "Oh come on, you love it."  
  
"I love half of it," Kurt corrected. "I never really got the music that sounds like it's playing underwater. I guess I didn't drop enough acid when I had the chance."  
  
Blaine shrugged. "Pot was enough for it to make sense, I guess." When Kurt looked shocked, he asked, "Did it not hit the East Coast?"  
  
"Sure, but... _you_ , of all people?"  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"You're so law-abiding and don't want to disappoint-" Kurt seemed to catch himself, though Blaine wasn't sure on what, and the man fell silent for a moment. He hesitated, then shrugged awkwardly. "I guess I assumed."  
  
Blaine wasn't sure what to say to that, exactly, so he ventured the truth. "It was practically mandatory out here. I didn't do it all the time or anything, just at parties sometimes - especially after I stopped drinking so much, it wasn't..." Blaine paused. Did he really want to explain that - and to Kurt, of all people? "It was fun, that's all. I didn't think you'd be one to judge."  
  
"I'm not - I just...can't picture it. You're so...in-control."  
  
He wasn't about to explain that that had been the problem for a long time: the need to be in control, to hold onto everything so tightly that his joints practically vibrated from the stress and he constantly felt sick to his stomach, sure something would slip and someone would see and he'd be done for.   
  
He wasn't any more interested in having that conversation than he was in explaining why he limited himself to one beer per outing.   
  
The familiar staticky skip sound that signaled the end of the album saved him, and he extricated himself from the tangle of blankets and Kurt on the couch to change the record. He felt Kurt's gaze lingering on his bare backside while he thumbed through the LP case, and he drew in a slow breath to calm himself as he took his time deciding. Thinking about what he could say - or should say, or might say, or could say but would regret - took him back twenty years in an instant and threatened to bog him down in the quagmires of the past.   
  
He was fine. They were fine.  
  
He chose something a little more mellow, hoping to get back to basking in the quiet afternoon. Slipping it carefully out of the sleeve, he placed it on the turntable and lowered the needle, then turned back toward the couch. Kurt half-tried to pretend he hadn't been staring, but they both knew it was a ruse, and the man simply smiled - an expression that turned into a beaming grin as the [soulful voice](https://youtu.be/8yNk6bmT0L4) poured through the speakers. "Now that's more like it," Kurt commended as he sat up to give Blaine more room to settle onto the couch.  
  
"I had a feeling you'd know this one." Blaine sank against the armrest and smiled as Kurt seemed to slither half into his lap.   
  
"Of course I do. I think Rachel even has the sheet music in the apartment somewhere." He could feel Kurt's smile where the man's cheek rested against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around Kurt, closing his eyes and relishing the comfortable ease that he could feel returning. "I never realized how many of the songs I loved as a teenager were written by her."  
  
"It's amazing. And her voice..."  
  
"You always did love singers with that depth of emotion." There was something almost sad in the fondness of Kurt's tone, and Blaine felt the queasiness growing in his stomach again. He remembered those conversations, on the floor of his dorm room, listening to albums and talking about which Judy Garland songs contained the most heartfelt sorrow. He still couldn't listen to "Smile" without feeling like he was steeling himself to go on - even if the day was going well.   
  
Peter had teased him fondly about how closely music and his mood were tied, saying he'd never seen anyone who could go from happy to despondent with the wrong song before. It worked in reverse, too, he had always needed to point out - the right song could cheer him up, or make him feel powerful when everything seemed to be spinning out of control, or help him remember that he wouldn't be alone forever when a man chased someone else and left him in the dust. Sometimes he just  _felt_  too much, and the catharsis of listening to someone else who seemed to experience life just as deeply as he did was what made him feel less isolated.  
  
Not that he was about to tell Kurt that, at least not in as many words. "You know me well," he offered quietly, the words like a pang to each of them as Kurt stiffened for a moment and let out a long exhale. "The emotion is what she has over Carly Simon."  
  
"Who do you think that song's about anyway?"  
  
"I think there are two options. The first is that it's a tautology - anyone who finds himself thinking he might be the subject of the song is vain enough that he  _is_." When Kurt looked at him in confusion, he allowed, "Or Mick Jagger. Who else would wear an apricot scarf?"  
  
"I would," Kurt replied, then added, "but my money's on Warren Beatty."  
  
They fell into comfortable silence for several songs, save bits of melody hummed absently against skin. Blaine smiled as he felt Kurt's fingers tease at the loosened curls at the back of his neck, and he let his own digits wander aimlessly across his lover's shoulder and back, tracing light patterns across the soft flesh. He could get used to this.  
  
 _Tonight you're mine, completely..._  
  
He felt Kurt tense up suddenly as [a new track began](https://youtu.be/m8KlYc0xG80). He expected a question about what time it was or a statement about something Kurt had just remembered he had to do, but none came; no words at all came, nor did a return to the easy relaxation of moments before.  
  
"Kurt?" When he didn't respond, Blaine asked again, "Kurt? What's wrong?"  
  
Kurt hesitated a moment, then shook his head as he tried to force himself to relax. "Nothing."  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"Of course," he replied as though it was obvious, when it couldn't be further from the truth. "It's stupid. It's this fucking song, that's all." Though he tried to return to the same lazy position he'd been in before, his body lacked the ease it had had; he was all angles now, stiff backed, chin pressing awkwardly against Blaine's shoulder.  
  
He wondered if this was a song Kurt had shared with a former lover - clearly the song reminded him of something horrible, or at least very painful, and he wrapped his arm more tightly around the man, wanting to protect and reassure him at the same time. "What happened?" he asked gently, his voice soft and soothing. He knew too well how songs could put a person back in another time and place - he still felt a pang of melancholy when he listened to Dusty Springfield sometimes, even though Peter had been gone for more than a decade now. And when ABC played on the radio he always thought of the ridiculous way Alan would dance to it...he understood. Even if he didn't want to think too hard about the other men in Kurt's past, he certainly could appreciate that Kurt had a lifetime of memories, and he wanted to help.   
  
Kurt sat up, staring at him in disbelief. "You're kidding," he deadpanned, eyebrows knitting together in a combination of suspicion and anger that Blaine didn't understand.   
  
"What?"  
  
He stared at him for another moment expectantly, waiting for Blaine to spontaneously understand something he had never heard of before, then rolled his eyes and stood up. "Wow. You don't even remember. That's-... _wow_." Kurt began gathering his clothes from the floor, picking through the discarded garments as he shook his head and rolled his eyes again, though whether in disbelief or self-recrimination Blaine wasn't sure.   
  
"Kurt, wait-" Blaine reached out for him, hoping to tug him back down onto the couch so they could discuss this, but Kurt pulled from his grasp and fixed him with a fiery glare that said 'don't touch me' clearer than words could. "What happened? Why are you so upset?"  
  
"You really don't know?"  
  
"No, I don't," Blaine admitted honestly. "Things were fine, you were upset about a song, I asked why, and now you're really pissed and I don't have any idea what's happening right now." The admission didn't seem to reduce Kurt's frustration, so he added a plaintive - but sincere - "Let's talk about it. Please."  
  
"Here I am, thinking you understand, that you're in the same place I am, that you're working to slowly put the past behind you, but it turns out you forgot all about it a decade ago-"  
  
"Kurt-"  
  
"You left me half-naked on a couch in the commons!" Blaine had never understood a statement knocking a person back before, but the sharp accusation hurled at him with such anger and raw hurt felt like it pushed him back into the couch as swiftly as a blow to the chest would have. "And here I am, in your living room seventeen years later, feeling like maybe it's okay now because you've clearly changed, but you don't even remember it enough to be hurt by it." His tone was quieter now but no less anguished or furious, which only twisted Blaine's insides harder.  
  
Of course he was hurt by it. He had worked for  _years_  to try to stop thinking about it, to try not to feel like that was the exact type of hurt that homosexuality would bring a person, to try not to think himself a monster for preying on a boy like that, to-   
  
He had been young, he tried to remind himself the same way he always did when regret like this bubbled up. He hadn't known any better. He hadn't known-  
  
The attempts at reassurance did nothing when the consequences of his actions were standing right in front of him, arms crossed indignantly across his naked chest, eyes red, jaw set in fury that had clearly resulted from decades of feeling abandoned and hurt.  
  
"Of course I remember," he replied quietly, willing his voice not to shake. "I just didn't- Are you sure this was the song?"  
  
"Of course," Kurt replied, his consonants clipped in stiff irritation. "Because the song asked 'Will you still love me tomorrow?' and the answer was no."  
  
His eyes widened in surprise at the biting self-retort that had clearly been steeping in bitter resentment for sixteen years - not that he could blame Kurt for resenting what happened. For resenting  _him_  for what had happened. "Kurt, please-" he murmured.  
  
"Please what?" came the disinterested reply, but neither man moved. "Forgive you?" Kurt seemed to half-laugh at that, though Blaine wasn't sure why, nor did he understand the roll of the man's eyes that followed. "Here I was, thinking I could just love the new you and forget the old you existed, and it turns out you already had."  
  
The accusation burned, and Blaine leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think? That I forgot about everything unforgivable that I did to you? I didn't remember what song it was, but believe me - I remember what happened. I  _hate_  what happened."  
  
"What happened," Kurt repeated, almost mocking the words.  
  
"What do you want me to say, Kurt? I regret it - I regret all of it. If I could go back-" he stopped, unsure what to say.   
  
He would change everything? What if 'everything' included the entire relationship? He wouldn't be able to bring himself to erase all of it, the good in spite of the bad.   
  
If he could go back he would make sure to keep his hands to himself? That seemed like an absurd correction to make, as though that had been the only real problem. As though that was all he had to apologize for. The physical contact hadn't been the issue, even if at the time he had convinced himself it was - no, not convinced; had  _believed_  it was the problem. That had been what he thought made him barely curable, what made him almost confess to his father and plead for help.  
  
He would explain himself better? Would that have done any good, to break the boy's heart but have a really good explanation for why he was doing it?  
  
Would that do any good now?  
  
"What?" Kurt prompted. "If you could go back then what?"  
  
He didn't want to try to explain, to seek words for things he had tried unsuccessfully to bury years ago, but he didn't know how to apologize without telling the whole story. How else could he make Kurt understand?   
  
"Do you remember-" he leaned forward, licking his lips, trying to draw in a deep enough breath to power through the rest of the sentence even as he felt like he might fall over from nerves at any moment. "When you came to my house to pick up clothes for the dance, toward the end of the year?"  
  
"What does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"Can you just- I'm trying to explain this. I  _need_  to explain it to you. Can you-" He looked up at Kurt; the man's stoic expression didn't move, arms didn't uncross, but he fell silent.  
  
"I'm listening," Kurt replied, though his tone conveyed that Blaine better get to the point soon.  
  
"You met my parents."  
  
"Right," Kurt confirmed, then smiled faintly as he recalled, "Your mom looked and dressed like Grace Kelly. She was incredible."  
  
Blaine winced - that was all Kurt remembered. Of course it was. He'd spent only a few hours there, nowhere near long enough to understand that the facade was just a shell of a person, hollow like a chocolate bunny. If Kurt didn't get his mother, there was no way he would understand why his father  _knowing_  - and spotting Kurt's "affliction" from a ten minute interaction - had been enough to scare him into fleeing for California. There was no way to explain without that basic foundation.   
  
It wasn't Kurt's fault he didn't know, he reminded himself to tamp down his frustration. Kurt was brilliant and amazing but he wasn't a mind-reader. He could only know what was explained. He had spent one afternoon at the Anderson home - and there were a lot of reasons for that; it wasn't his fault for not being able to see past company manners.  
  
He tried another tack.  
  
"Do you remember when they took homosexuality out of the DSM?"  
  
Kurt allowed himself to grin. "Of course. There was a 'psychiatric ward' party. Jewel stole hospital gowns from work and I made them into ball gowns. Then I wore a straight jacket I modified and won for best walk when I 'broke free' and used the sleeves like flags."  
  
Blaine couldn't imagine being able to take the idea that lightly, not when the enduring mental image he had of homosexuals in the psychiatric ward involved a lot of lobotomy and shock patients who could barely hold their heads up or form words, let alone prance and retort. He managed a faint smile at Kurt's obvious pride at the memory, but it fell quickly. "There were doctors who went on all the tv shows to talk about it - remember? Ones on each side...every morning show and news program for a few weeks had experts who said it was a much-needed step toward destigmatizing us and that there was nothing wrong with us...and experts who said we were sick and dangerous - to ourselves and people around us - and that taking the condition out of the DSM would keep us from getting the treatment we desperately needed to be healthy. To be  _normal_." He swallowed to keep his voice from cracking on that word - that damned word. He met Kurt's eyes for a moment to be sure he remembered, then dropped his gaze. He folded his hands to keep from fidgeting and drew in a deep breath before continuing. "My father was one of those doctors."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"He was a psychotherapist, and that was his specialty: treating homosexuals. Curing them. Curing-... _trying_  to cure, anyway, I don't know that anyone actually felt better. He said they were."  
  
"What do you mean, 'curing'?" Kurt asked suspiciously.  
  
"There...there were different degrees," he offered. "There were men who had feelings but could live a normal life, marry a woman, father children...they just had psychoanalysis. Those cases went mostly to other doctors, though, my father..." he let out a long sigh, shaking his head. "He treated the difficult cases."  
  
"Difficult how?"  
  
"You," Blaine replied quietly, looking up at him. Kurt looked taken aback by that, and Blaine was torn between feeling bad for saying it and being glad something registered and shock the stoicism. "You knew who you were, what you wanted,  _who_  you wanted, and you had no interest in changing or conforming," he stated, voice low but even. "A lot of his patients were like you, brought in by parents or so-called friends, by people who were looking out for them."  
  
"Wh-" Kurt's voice caught slightly. "What happened to them?" But Blaine understood the question he was really asking: What would have happened to me?  
  
"Electroshock," he replied evenly. "If that didn't work, lobotomies were still common in the beginning. By the time it changed a few years ago, those were falling out of fashion. Some of his colleagues still swore those were the most effective way to make a permanent change, though. To rid a person of their sickness forever." He couldn't help a wry smile. Tens of thousands of them had been 'cured' of their affliction overnight with the stroke of a pen. Why couldn't such a cure have come earlier? How many lives had been ruined in the meantime? "Those were the worst cases, though. He had plenty who weren't so severe, who were...like me. Who knew, but who wanted to change. Who wanted so desperately to be well, who would have done almost anything..." He paused, then ventured, "There were indicators that a patient was getting worse. Acting on desires was a sure sign that a person was getting sicker. I'd known that since before I knew what 'acting on desire' meant. On the couch that day, when I lost control and..." He couldn't even say it.  
  
"...You thought that meant you were getting worse," Kurt concluded quietly.   
  
Blaine nodded and looked up at him; he wasn't sure when the arms crossed across Kurt's chest in annoyance had started to look more like he was hugging himself. "I had acted on it. And worse than that, I had hurt you. One of the things I had heard my entire life was how destructive homosexuals were, how we ruined everything around us, how we hurt people." He shook his head slightly. "I know I was wrong about the cause and effect - I understand that  _now_. I hurt you because I was scared, not because I was becoming more seriously ill. Acting on my desires wasn't the destructive part - running scared was. But it was all I had heard for 17 years, and I had only known you for a few months, so I couldn't believe it. I wanted to, sometimes, I did, but..."  
  
"...But I was sick, too, so what did I know?" Kurt filled in, but there was no malice in his words.  
  
"Exactly. I thought I was supposed to fix you instead of the other way around. And after that dinner..."  
  
"What about the dinner?"  
  
Blaine met his gaze again as he stated, "He knew. He called me into his study after dinner to tell me you weren't something I should be around, but that he could help you. He went through a checklist of every effeminate thing he had seen during dinner - the way you walked, talked, that you had female friends...everything that to him was a symptom. He was afraid I would fall prey to you. And I knew that if I brought you back there ever again, or if we moved somewhere together, there was no way we could keep things a secret. You didn't want to, anyway, but he  _knew_."  
  
Silence stretched between them for what felt like a long time, and finally Kurt offered, "That's why you moved to California, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes and no," Blaine admitted. "I needed to get away from them, but part of me thought if I got away from you I could cure myself. I tried for a long time - if I drank enough, if I didn't think too much, I could feel normal for a little while, but ultimately..."  
  
"...there is no cure."   
  
Blaine couldn't help the weak laugh that gurgled up from his throat at that statement. It was so simple, so uncomplicated, but he had spent so many years fighting to learn that fact. So many years completely miserable, so many more years tormented by the memories of what he had done while denying it and denying himself...even now, the spectre of what might have been had he known better hung over every day, every relationship. "There really isn't," he agreed with a faint smile that belied how miserable he felt. "My father never could figure that out. He died about a year after they made the change; it was like he had no idea what to do with himself if he wasn't saving people from themselves. He so genuinely believed he was helping those men all those years...I wonder how many ended up as miserable as I was."  
  
He hadn't meant to say the last part out loud; he wasn't looking for Kurt's sympathy, especially not considering how much damage and pain he had done to the boy he loved and feared so deeply. He kept his gaze on the carpet as he heard a long, deep sigh and felt the couch dip beside him. Kurt reached for his clasped hands and held them. "Some probably figured it out the same way you did," he suggested. "There are plenty of men in New York who used to be married to women, some who have kids...at least you never got that far, right?"  
  
He managed a tired smile. "No. Not even close." They fell silent again, and after a moment he said what he wanted to make sure Kurt heard most: "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't believe you back then. But mostly I'm sorry I hurt you. I never wanted that - it still pains me to think about it." Kurt said nothing but laid his head against Blaine's. There they sat for awhile, shoulder to shoulder, hands in hand, touching nearly from head to toe, until finally Kurt spoke quietly:  
  
"I forgive you."


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt awoke so exhausted that he wondered if he'd even really slept at all. He blinked twice, trying to clear his fatigue-blurred vision, then craned his neck to read the clock on the nightstand - 9:17.  
  
The quiet rustle of Blaine's breath against the crisp pillowcase let him know he wasn't alone in bed. That was unusual these days; most mornings he stayed over, he awoke to the scent of breakfast cooking and the sound of Blaine singing old favourites to himself. He kept insisting Blaine didn't have to cook for him, but the man insisted. And he made really good omelets, so who was Kurt to turn them down?  
  
This morning, though...after the night they'd had...  
  
Judging by his own throbbing head and painfully dry eyes and mouth, he guessed he wasn't surprised Blaine was still asleep. If  _he_ felt like he'd been hit by a truck, he supposed his lover had to be even more drained.   
  
He still wasn't sure what to think about everything he'd heard. On one hand he wanted to pull Blaine into his arms and hold him and tell him how sorry he was for every rotten thing he'd ever said or thought about the way things had ended. On the other...even knowing what he knew now, it was hard to simply stop  _feeling_. The frustration and abandonment and resentment couldn't just fade away like the pale blue sky into twilight. If anything, he guessed, it made him angrier than ever - just not at Blaine.  
  
He didn't know if that was better or worse, either for himself or for the two of them together.   
  
He was furious at a man he had met for only a few minutes decades ago, but not only at him - at all of them. At every one of those quacks who had made their bones on telling people like Blaine, like  _him_ , that they were not just sick - but curable. That there were answers and cures and fixes that could solve everything. That with just electricity and time, they could traumatize the homosexuality out of anyone.  
  
How many lives had those men ruined? How many sons had they crushed into nothingness under the heel of their wingtips? How could they see these men and honestly believe it was for the best? How could they genuinely think that cutting out a part of their brain was the answer?   
  
At least Ricky's mom had simply discarded him.  
  
The thought chilled him, and he swallowed hard as he stared up at the ceiling. That was who this type of fury was usually reserved for - the woman who had shoved her 13-year-old son out on the street with five bucks, a toothbrush, and a change of clothes when she had caught him staring at a neighbour boy. That had been the most horrific, deplorable thing he had been able to imagine - to say nothing of what came after, how Ricky had survived for so long... but when compared to telling someone not just that he was disgusting, but that he could be fixed with a long enough needle shoved into his brain or enough electrodes sending a current through him...Kurt honestly wasn't sure which was more damaging to a person. At least Ricky could curse his mother and ignore her; hiding across the country and being afraid of the entire medical community almost seemed worse somehow.  
  
Maybe. Maybe not - Blaine at least hadn't needed to sleep with whatever old creep had passed by at midnight in order to buy something to eat, so it was hard not to think Blaine had it easier on some level. But on another...it was easy to see what a long shadow Blaine's father had cast.  
  
It was possible to get past such a thing - it had to be. He just had no idea how or what he could do to help.  
  
But he knew who might know.  
  
He slipped out of bed and pulled the lightweight cotton robe from its resting place on the back of the chair, shrugging it on. Once more he turned back to gaze at Blaine, and his heart broke further as he watched the sleeping man curl up a little further, practically shoving his face against a now-empty pillow. Kurt sighed quietly to himself and shook his head, padding out into the living room and closing the bedroom door behind.  
  
He picked up the phone by the base on his way to the couch, sinking into the comfortable cushion with a long sigh and cradling the receiver between his ear and his shoulder. It wasn't long until he heard a familiar sleepy voice.  
  
"Que?"  
  
"It's not  _that_  early," Kurt teased at the yawn that escaped his best friend.  
  
"Vonny! Okay, for you - and you only - I'll forgive the hour." He stifled a yawn as he added, "You know I don't wake up before three if I can help it."  
  
The sound of Ricky's voice sent a twist of loneliness through him - was that the right word? It couldn't be nostalgia when he'd only been away for a few months, and wistfulness implied he would rather be there, which wasn't entirely true. But how could a person be lonely when their lover slept in the next room?  
  
Luckily for him, Ricky - as always - pressed on to distract him.   
  
"How are things out there? And why in the world are you awake at this hour? Is it even daylight on that coast?"  
  
"At nine-thirty?" Ricky half-huffed, a familiar pattern of grumbled Spanglish that translated very roughly to "How would I know? Am I awake then?", but Kurt could hear the smile on his face even from 3,000 miles away. "Things are good," he replied, which was true but not complete. He didn't know how to explain the  _whole_  truth, the full situation.   
  
"And the man?" The way Ricky drew out the vowel made Kurt almost want to blush, but he managed to avoid it.  
  
"Asleep in the next room," he replied.  
  
"You're still there when he could wake up, sounds serious."  
  
It was, and not just by Ricky's standards, Kurt knew. It felt different - stronger, more important, and he was pretty sure it wasn't because of the history between them. "It is...I think."  
  
"How many days this week has he seen your underwear?" Now Kurt did blush, because only Ricky would use that as a barometer. When he didn't respond, he heard the younger man snicker. "Then why only 'think'? Sounds pretty serious to me."  
  
Kurt started to open his mouth to explain, only to realize he had no idea what to say. What could he ask? 'Hey, do you ever wish your parents had tormented you by trying to cure you instead of turning you loose on the streets to hustle before you even started high school?' They were open with one another, but  _that_  was a little far even for them. 'How do I help someone who's been so damaged by his family that he destroyed everyone around him including me?' That was even worse.   
  
"I don't know, do you ever wonder-" He tried to start the question, thinking maybe by the time he got there a verb would appear, but it didn't.   
  
Did he wonder what made the married businessmen types so afraid of themselves?  
  
Did he wonder how people could be so cruel to one another for no reason at all?  
  
Did he wonder what could have been if he had been allowed to be a normal teenager?   
  
"Wonder what?" Ricky prompted.  
  
He didn't know 'what'. "Nothing," Kurt replied.  
  
"Vonny..."  
  
"Nothing. Roads not taken, that's all."  
  
"I don't wonder that shit," Ricky replied, but his tone was sincere. "What's the point? I am where I am, and who I am, and I'm happy with both." He paused, then offered, "...Maybe it's better you met the guy again now. No one who gets together that young stays together the whole time, you'd hate each other by now."  
  
Kurt wasn't sure he believed that. His parents had gotten married young and loved each other until the day his mother died. Mercedes' parents had married at...19? Something like that, he didn't remember exactly...and they were still happy together. It wasn't perfect, no relationship was, but they didn't hate each other - at least not that he or Mercedes knew about. "Maybe," he allowed; he couldn't prove it either way.   
  
"Besides, then who would make my gowns?"  
  
From anyone else, Ricky's shift to a more superficial topic would have seemed like retreat, but he knew the man too well. It wasn't about the gowns, it was about the chance that they wouldn't have met or known each other. If Blaine had followed the plan...they probably would never have even seen each other, let alone struck up a friendship. Kurt couldn't even fathom what that world would look like - what he would do without the brutally honest man he had seen practically every day for almost fifteen years. Would he even be the same person without Ricky's influence? Would Ricky still be on a streetcorner somewhere without having been able to use the apartment as a crash-pad in the early days?  
  
"That is true," Kurt replied. "Is the flag ready to go?" He had spent hours piecing together red,white, and blue sequined fabrics to create a wrap gown modeled after the American flag that, with an unwrapping, turned into a Puerto Rican flag as wide as his friend's wingspan. Reveals were always a big crowd pleaser but difficult to manage well, but he had mastered Ricky's measurements well enough to be confident in the final product - even from across the country.  
  
Ricky scoffed. "I wore it last night."  
  
"But the Fourth is tonight."  
  
"When every queen north of 81st will be wearing either flag chic or Lady Liberty," he pointed out. "This way, they  _all_  know who wore it first. And best."  
  
Kurt grinned at the sassy pride in his best friend's voice, but his chest ached at not being there. "You always wear it best."  
  
"Of course I do. Are you making Mercedes look half as good as me?"  
  
"I'm trying," he replied, then admitted "but her manager keeps trying to tone down everything I do. I know it's not a stadium show, but if there's one thing I know it's how to make a gown dazzle a small, dimly-lit room. And you know Mercedes is up for most things, but Marvin just..."  
  
"Boring," Ricky replied knowingly. "I'm sorry, Vonny. Guess that means you'll have to keep using us as your true creative outlet."  
  
"Always. How is everyone?"  
  
"Better once this heat dies down. Milan's face was half-melted off before we ever got there last night." As Ricky launched into a play-by-play of who had worn what and walked how and whose boytoy turned out to have which dayjob, Kurt sank deeper into the couch, cradling the phone to his ear as tightly as he could. He missed them - Ricky in particular - so badly. Somehow he had gone from going out every night and being the belle of the ball to spending evenings in with just a man and a turntable - and he was happy. He was. Last night notwithstanding, he was-...it was just that they were so far away.  
  
Maybe he could urge Blaine out there. New York had always been the plan, hadn't it? And if the man had left San Francisco for the summer because he'd tired of that whole scene, then why not make a more permanent move? Then he really could have the best of both worlds.  
  
Except for work. Work was still out here unless he wanted to go back to piecing together unoriginal runway pieces and looking at pricepoints for hideous samples. Even Marvin's lack of enthusiasm for his vision was still better than what he had been doing.  
  
Two out of three would have to do for now.  
  
By the time Ricky hung up (the phone cord didn't reach into the bathroom, even in the tiny New York apartment), Kurt was feeling mildly homesick and no closer to figuring out what to do about Blaine.  
  
Maybe Rachel would know, he realized suddenly. Or at least her father would, and he might have told her stories. He had no idea what her father and his lover had gone through back then, except obviously for the divorce and relocation. Maybe they had seen similar therapists or been steered in that direction. After all, a middle-aged man with a daughter and wife wouldn't be the sort of person likely to come out back then; from the sounds of it, her dad would have been exactly the type of person who might have sought help from a therapist like Blaine's father.  
  
She sounded just as chipper as ever as she answered the phone after three rings. "Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Rachel."  
  
"Kurt! Oh my god - I'm so sorry, I'm on my way out, I only have a minute or else I'd love to talk forever. I miss you! How's California?"  
  
"It's good - somehow not as hot as it is there," he replied with a faint smile.  
  
"Really? I always thought Los Angeles was the land of perpetual tan and sunglasses for a reason."  
  
"Probably because of winter," he supposed.  
  
"Maybe. Is Mercedes doing well?"  
  
He knew from experience that the question wasn't an open invitation to brag about their friend's success; even if Rachel had grown and did try to be happy for others' triumphs - as long as it wasn't at her expense - too much could still drag her down for days. "It's going well," he confirmed. "There's a lot of work still to do, but so far."  
  
"Good. Tell her I'm happy for her." He noted the modifier with skepticism, eyebrows raising, but Rachel charged ahead. "How's Blaine? Are you still seeing him?"  
  
"He's good," Kurt replied.   
  
"Good. I knew if you could get out of your own way, things could work out." She sounded distant and dreamy, and Kurt suspected she wasn't actually talking about him anymore at all.   
  
"Is Jesse messing with anything in my room?" he asked, and the flustered "No!" he received in return confirmed his hypothesis. "Sounds like I'm not the only one having a good summer."  
  
"Better than good," she replied. "He's as driven as I am, so we rehearse together every day before our call times. By the time you come back, we'll be the next Broadway power couple." He wasn't sure anyone other than Rachel would brag about morning warmup rehearsals with their boyfriend as a sign of anything other than insanity, but to his roommate it was true love. "And he's so romantic - we have a picnic every Monday and a regular dinner reservation between shows on Wednesday...only we don't talk, we write everything down so we save our voices. Then decaf tea with honey and lemon together every night afterwards."  
  
He couldn't imagine enjoying silence-only dates, but he understood anyway. "You sound happy," he concluded, and he could practically hear her beaming smile through the phone.  
  
"I am," she acknowledged, then asked, "And you?"  
  
He was. Notwithstanding the previous night or the lingering frustration and powerlessness that had replaced decades of resentment and anger...he wasn't sure he could think of anything he would rather do than wake up to the sound of Blaine preparing breakfast and singing classic songs under his breath. Or feeling the way Blaine's gaze bore into him as he put on his nightly moisturizing cream while Blaine flossed his teeth over the sink.   
  
"Yeah," he replied sincerely, unable to stop himself from smiling as well. "I am."  
  
"Look at us," Rachel grinned. "In mature, stable relationships with boys we couldn't make it work with in high school. They should make a movie about us."  
  
"Starring us," Kurt added, because he knew Rachel would insist. "Listen, can I ask you-"  
  
"I can't, it's 1:07 - I'm already late. I'm sorry, Kurt, you know I would love to talk, but it's Sunday-"  
  
"Three o'clock matinee, 1:45-call," he nodded.  
  
"Call me tomorrow? I would say later today, but Jesse and I are going down to watch the parade of tall ships and then see the fireworks. Did you know they're coming from 55 countries? Who knew 55 countries even still had ships like that that were sea-worthy?"  
  
"Sure, I'll call tomorrow," he confirmed, and after they said their goodbyes he hung up the phone with a sigh.   
  
Two down, no closer to answers.  
  
He should be able to call anyone whose number he could remember and talk about this, he knew; aside from a few colleagues and maybe some of Rachel's friends, he couldn't remember the last time he spent time with a heterosexual man (and the jury was still out on most of Rachel's friends). Practically everyone he saw on a regular basis was gay and would understand the dilemma-  
  
That wasn't the right word, he sighed to himself. Dilemma implied a choice to be made on his part, which there wasn't. Not really, anyway. He loved Blaine - for how long, or how continuously, he couldn't say, but even when he had been at his angriest point the night before the feeling hadn't waned. His desire to seek out advice wasn't about solving a problem or determining whether a wrong had been committed or by whom, it was just-  
  
...needing to feel less like an island.  
  
He couldn't remember when he had first started describing the sensation that way. He remembered feeling it even as a young child, practically able to watch the distance between himself and everyone else grow by the minute until he was a hundred miles inside himself. The solitude alternated between feeling like safety and punishment, especially when it looked like no one around him was scattered on islands of their own but greeting the world as a participant instead of an onlooker. The frequency of the sensation had decreased over time - and it was rare to feel isolated from much when Ricky was in the room - but sometimes it could creep back over him so gradually he barely noticed his body curling in on itself protectively.  
  
There were people just like him - just like Blaine, too - all around now. It wasn't like growing up in Ohio or the first few years in New York anymore. But sometimes it felt like the only thing people like them were supposed to talk about was having fun. Where they were going to party tonight, who was doing what with whom, who was buying what from whom. They were liberated now; they didn't have to be serious. They could be just as hedonistic and shallow as their heterosexual counterparts, who had seemingly vowed to never talk or think about things like war ever again...but there were homeless veterans all over New York City who couldn't just put aside what had happened in the previous decade.   
  
They couldn't just move on and say everything was fine because they had survived. There were too many wounds that weren't quite scarred over yet.  
  
He dialed again, not sure whose voice he would hear on the other end. After the third ring, he shook his head and almost hung up, realizing they probably weren't home. On any weekend during the summer, especially a holiday weekend, there was a better than even chance they were out on [Fire Island](http://www.newnownext.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/early-1970s.jpg). He had spent about half the weekends out with them the previous year, and as a result to this day the smell of sea breeze made him simultaneously relaxed and turned-on. Of course they were out at a perpetual party-  
  
"Hello?"  
  
John didn't sound nearly as tired as Ricky had, but that didn't mean Kurt thought he was well-rested. Still, as with the previous calls, the familiar voice was a simultaneous balm on his heart and a fresh twinge of homesickness he had pushed aside for too long. "I thought you'd be out on the Island."  
  
"Kurt! No - I had a couple gigs for the parties, so we stayed. And I'm glad we did. The baths are like the UN this weekend."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Everyone's here for the celebration - foreign delegations I guess. Quite an international buffet." He could hear John grin. "You're missing out in California. There's nothing you could want there that you couldn't get here this week."  
  
There was exactly one thing he couldn't get there, Kurt knew, and that thing was curled around a pillow in the next room. "Sounds like fun," he replied, but he didn't miss it - or, at least, he wouldn't trade it.  
  
"'Fun' was Thursday night. Friday and Saturday were both well beyond 'fun.' How are you? How are things?"  
  
He was glad John had added the second question, because it was much easier to answer. "Things are good," he replied honestly. Despite the previous night's reckoning with the past, and despite the painful queasiness of homesickness this morning had brought, he could honestly say that overall, things were going well. Better than they had been for awhile in New York, for the most part, and the dryer summer was agreeing with him.   
  
"Good! What are the festivities like out there?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"Really? I thought everywhere big was having events."  
  
"I'm sure there's something, I just haven't paid attention to it." There had been a few more pressing issues, Kurt added silently with a quick roll of his eyes.  
  
"Well start paying attention, would you? Because if it's anything like here, you'll hate yourself for missing it."   
  
"Missing what?" Kurt heard another familiar voice beyond the receiver.  
  
"All the fun," John replied.  
  
"Who is that? The Spaniard or whats-his-name from Montreal, the flight attendant?"  
  
"Kurt."  
  
"Hi, Kurt!" Don called, and Kurt could hear shuffling as the pair reoriented themselves; when Don spoke again, he sounded much closer, and Kurt could picture them lounging, one in the egg chair, the other on one end of the sofa, receiver held between them. "How's California?"  
  
"Good - how's business?"  
  
"Not bad," Don replied, and Kurt wasn't sure if that was an under- or over-statement. Given that it was summer, when everyone in New York decamped to elsewhere during any free time they had, he suspected it meant business was slow but not enough to be bothered by because it meant more time to enjoy the Island. "What's going on?"  
  
He should have anticipated that Don would be the only one to ask him why he was calling. He was businesslike that way, thanks in part to years of being far enough up the design ladder to be stuck in meetings rather than a studio. Still, the question set Kurt mentally fumbling as he tried to figure out how to summarize what felt like personal global upheaval.  
  
"Did either of you ever see a psychotherapist before you came out?"  
  
The phrase was one more thing that had undergone a revolution in the span of only a few years. Kurt remembered when it still meant coming out  _into_  the gay world, debuting one's self into the local homosexual community and scene as though announcing one's arrival. Now the word "closet" was attached and it meant escaping from silence. He wasn't sure he liked the new usage, frankly; for one thing, closets had always been a happy thing for him, full of possibilities and self-expression with every hanger. For another, that was what they called the large storage room at work that held previous collections, which meant that a handful of less-original design assistants would make jokes about having to go into or come out of the closet on an almost daily basis, never seeming to understand that they weren't nearly as funny as they thought they were. There were people within the community - or at least writing for the Voice - who thought it was a positive change, that it was a sign of their liberation to reframe the phrase into an announcement to the world rather than an insular community, but Kurt wasn't sure he saw it that way. He had never needed to make an announcement to the world; his very presence announced it for him. What he  _had_  needed was to find a group of people who loved over-the-top spectacle and parties as much as he did and come into his own among them. That sounded much more like a debutante's party than a hiding place to him.  
  
"Of course," Don replied, like it should have been the most obvious thing in the world. "My analyst wasn't surprised but thought I was crazy for doing anything about it. I think he thought there was going to be a lavender scare - can you imagine? In fashion? There'd be no designers left."  
  
"And the entire country would be wandering around in ill-fitting mis-matched short-sleeve button-downs and pleated pants," Kurt joked.  
  
"So awful," John sighed.  
  
"He didn't try to talk you out of it?" Kurt asked.  
  
"Sure he did," Don replied nonchalantly. "Not that it made a difference. Once I knew, there wasn't much I could do about it. I mean, I tried - we all did back then. But once I got to that point, who was going to stop me? If  _I_  couldn't stop me..."  
  
"Right, but...he didn't try to-" Kurt hesitated, trying to find the words, and when he resumed speaking it was in a more deliberate manner. "There were some psychotherapists back then who tried more extreme measures to stop us."  
  
There was silence for a moment, then Don began haltingly, confused, "Well...there were some who broke confidentiality and reported patients to police, I remember that scandal, but I'm not sure-"  
  
"You mean the lobotomies and all that?" John asked.  
  
'And all that.' Kurt felt like the phrase was disrespectful in the way it glossed over so much, but he wasn't sure he could come up with anything better to put in its place. "Yes."  
  
"They were around," John replied, his voice distant and hollow. "A few in Jersey that men who came to the bars had gone to. One doctor even sent someone around to try to collect the unhappiest homosexuals he could find and then offer them a cure, but he didn't last very long. I'm pretty sure it turned out he was also abusing them." The idea that a lobotomy wasn't considered abuse but trying to have sex with them was turned Kurt's stomach. "That's all been gone since...I don't know, it was before the riots, right?"  
  
"Oh, absolutely. I think before we even met Kurt," Don confirmed. "It was ages ago. Why?"  
  
That it had ended 'ages' earlier in New York than in Ohio didn't surprise him, but it did cause the rage inside him to simmer hotter. As if things weren't hard enough where he had grown up, being how he was - or, more accurately, being how Blaine had been. At least the men in New York had known there were alternatives and been able to choose; in Columbus, who knew any of this?   
  
Maybe that was why it had ended earlier, he realized; in New York there were enough men who knew better who could put a stop to it. In Ohio, who could say anything? Who could know that the expert was so gravely wrong? It didn't help that they didn't talk about anything that would upset people in public, so even if he had known about any of what Blaine's father was doing, he couldn't have said much of anything...and he would have been hauled off to get help, too.  
  
...only if his father would have let them.   
  
That was the real difference between him and Blaine, he realized suddenly, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he cradled the receiver to his ear. As a teenager he had been so enamored of Blaine's family: his immaculate home, his father's tailored suit, his glamorous mother...so much richer-seeming and more rarified than his own, smaller house that was crowded with too much mismatched furniture, his dad's coveralls and work shirts, the stepmother who was warm but never his own. But that had been wrong - so horribly wrong, so shortsighted that even his young age couldn't qualify as an excuse.  
  
His own father was the rare one.  
  
His father had simply said "okay." Had squeezed his shoulder and made him toast and sat there with him in silence while they ate. His father had stood up for Mrs. Jones and for Mercedes any time it was needed - which, thinking back, was probably far more often than he had realized as a child. Somehow, even with as little as his father seemed to know sometimes, the man's response to Kurt's revelations about what he wanted in life had always been a simple "okay" and a squeeze of support. When he wanted a set of pearl cufflinks and shirt studs for his 8th birthday, they had appeared; they were second-hand and much too big for him, but they were there. When he wanted a sewing machine for Christmas when he was 12 so he could stop bloodying his fingers with a needle and thread night and day trying to make a jacket, it had been there waiting for him under the tree. When he had decided to forego college or the family business or the state of Ohio and move to New York and become a fashion designer, his father had given him a big hug goodbye and helped him load his suitcase underneath the bus. And when he had told his father that he wasn't in love with Rachel, that they would never be together because of a particular secret...  
  
He knew that the quiet acceptance, awkward though it was, had felt monumental to him; he had never realized quite how noteworthy it was on the grand scale of gay experience.  
  
Blaine's father wasn't the outlier; he was the man of his time. He had done what he knew to be best for the men in his office, many of whom had likely been referred there by worried family members who thought their loved ones were gravely ill with a devastating disorder. If more people had been like his own father, Kurt knew, Blaine's father wouldn't have stayed in business very long. He was able to keep doing what he did thanks to a long line of desperate men and their equally-desperate family members who tried to cure homosexuality as fervently as if it were cancer.  
  
Ultimately neither were successful only because neither could be cured. But that hadn't stopped them from trying.  
  
"Kurt?" Don's voice jolted him out of his reverie.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"Nothing," he replied, which was true in one sense - nothing was happening  _now_. But it still felt like the world was spinning the opposite way on its axis. "Don't worry about it. I've gotta go."  
  
He needed to call someone else.  
  
His fingers dialed the familiar number automatically, practically without looking. He wasn't entirely surprised that Carole answered; the phone was in the kitchen, at least the last he knew, and he knew better than to think his dad would be hanging out in there. "Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Car-" he hadn't gotten the first syllable of her name out when she cut him off happily.  
  
"Kurt! We haven't heard from you in too long. How's LA?"  
  
"It's great," he replied honestly. "I was hoping to talk to Dad - is he around?" The shop was usually closed on holidays, but sometimes he went in anyway to get paperwork done and take care of the books.  
  
"He's out back with the grandkids, honey, let me get him."   
  
Grandkids. Obviously he knew his stepbrother's children existed, but it still threw him for a moment when Carole put it that way. His dad was a grandfather. His dad wasn't old enough to be a grandfather. Well, he was - but he shouldn't be. In Kurt's mind he was perpetually in his 40s and always would be...nevermind that Kurt himself was closer to that age than not.  
  
He was an uncle. That never seemed right either.  
  
"Hey, buddy! Didn't expect to hear from you today."  
  
"Why do you sound out of breath?" Kurt demanded.  
  
"We were just out throwing the ball around. Lemme tell ya, Jeff's got an arm on him. He'll be starting for the Indians before we know it." Hearing his father so proud of a boy throwing a ball now didn't feel any better than it had about Finn when they were teenagers; knowing that a...seven? eight? twelve?...year old could throw better than he could was even less comforting.   
  
"Good for him," he replied with a tight smile. "Are you overdoing it?"  
  
"I'm fine," his father insisted. "How are you? Big plans today?"  
  
"Not really," Kurt admitted. Of the many holidays he got excited about, he had to admit that this one wasn't too high on his list. Fireworks were fun, sure, but it wasn't like Christmas or Halloween or anything. "You? It sounds like everyone's there..." He could hear happy chatter at intervals, like the back door swinging open then closed again as people came in and out of the kitchen.   
  
"Yeah. Well, it was just Finn and Cindy and the kids, but then the Moores stopped by with their crew, and Smitty ran out of propane so he came over to use our grill. I think Phil's stopping by on his way back - they were up on Kelly's Island all weekend but won't get home in time for burgers or anything, and it's right on the way."  
  
"Phil?" Kurt asked, having no idea who that was or why his father was so intimately acquainted with the guy's travel plans.  
  
"Yeah, Cindy's brother." His father said it like it was obvious, and it took Kurt too long to search his memory for any recollection of him: a toast at the wedding by a...podiatrist? dentist? something like that...from Wapakoneta. A man so nondescriptly Midwestern that, in Kurt's memory, he was literally a blank face in a boxy grey suit. "When all's said and done it'll probably be a dozen, dozen and a half over the day. Nothing too big."  
  
Kurt couldn't imagine having over eighteen people and not thinking it was a large gathering; where would he and Rachel put them all? But in the backyard at home, he guessed, that wouldn't feel crowded at all. "Sounds nice," he offered stiffly. There wasn't much he would like to do less than stand around with a bunch of grilling manly-men, drinking beer and listening to children shriek and play tag, but...his dad sounded like he was enjoying himself.  
  
"It is. We did the parade this morning, Finn marched with the Vets group - uniform and all. And the kids walked with their scout groups, passed out flags. Like Finn did when he was a kid, remember?"  
  
Kurt did remember that part. Finn walking down the street in shorts and knee socks with a bandana around his neck and a [really stupid hat](https://bulldogvintage.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/cfw-cuqwkkgrhqyokose0fjfftocbnwfepzqw_3.jpg) passing out tiny flags for families to wave as all the surviving veterans - from the three little old men who had fought in the Spanish-American War all the way to the crop of fathers who had beaten the Nazis only a few years earlier - marched down the street to thunderous cheering and applause. That sort of thing didn't happen anymore in New York; instead, long-haired twenty-somethings in fatigues walked...or rolled...down the sidewalks with signs pleading for more help for Vietnam vets.   
  
"'Course, Cindy was scrambling to find him a uniform that fit. Usually they just wear their polo shirts, but with the bicentennial they were going all out, and he isn't 20 anymore - none of us are," his father chuckled to himself, mostly at his own expense Kurt suspected as he tried to picture what his brother looked like these days. He hadn't seen pictures in a few years and hadn't been home in even longer - and then it had been at Christmas when everyone was wearing bulky sweaters anyway...   
  
His brother wasn't the 18-year-old grinning in his service portraits anymore. He was almost twice as old with three kids and a marriage of more than 10 years. How had so much time passed? How was his brother old enough to have been married that long?   
  
How had Finn lived an entire lifetime in the time it had taken Kurt to do virtually nothing at all?  
  
It caught him off-guard sometimes that life in Lima, backwards and slow as it seemed to him, hadn't stopped when he had left...and that as fast as New York moved, it didn't mean his life kept up the frenetic pace. He still lived with Rachel in the same apartment, neither of them were the stars they had envisioned themselves becoming... While he had never thought of his father as particularly wise or ambitious, by the time his father was the age he was now, he'd been a widower raising a child and owning his own business. What did Kurt have to show for himself that could compare?  
  
Why didn't he feel older? More together? More accomplished?  
  
"I don't think he'd even tried the thing on in about ten years..."  
  
Ten years. Kurt instinctively felt like "ten years ago" meant sometime in the fifties, but that wasn't true - and hadn't been for awhile. Where had time gone?  
  
But by the same token...even if the tangible parts of his life hadn't changed since 1966, everything else had. Ten years ago the bars were boarded-up storefronts serving watered-down booze to fund the mob; now in parts of the city there were bars on practically every corner with enormous windows and owners from within the community. Back then the idea of an annual festival filled with homosexuals would have sounded like insanity; who would go to an event where the police could simply arrest everyone in sight and put their photos in the paper? He and Blaine had ridden a ferris wheel while the latest disco hit played over a loudspeaker and as far as the eye could see were gay men like them.   
  
Finn may have lived an entire lifetime, but Kurt had seen a revolution, a complete world-changing that left him practically on another planet as far as he was concerned.  
  
He wouldn't trade for anything.  
  
"Is that why you called? To ask about the parade?"  
  
"No," Kurt replied, fiddling with the afghan for a moment. "I wanted to-..."   
  
He wanted to what, exactly? To thank his father for not having him lobotomized? For never treating him like he was diseased or a problem to be cured? For not treating him any differently after he knew the deep dark secret? For letting him be exactly who he was?  
  
For loving him? Wasn't that supposed to be automatic and not something that required thanking?  
  
Besides, this wasn't the sort of conversation that midwestern men had - he didn't, anyway, and his father certainly didn't. They had conversations about sports, about the weather, about how many loads of firewood that tree over there would yield or what the squeak in the passing car meant and how to fix it. They talked about plenty of things, just none quite so... _intimate_. Or if they did, it could never be leveled seriously, only as a joke that would be uncomfortable if it hit too close to home.   
  
He and Ricky were alike that way. It was part of how they'd lasted so long, he suspected.  
  
"Everything okay?"  
  
He glanced around the room as though the answer could be found on the walls that surrounded him; nothing in the familiar, comfortable trappings provided any succinct way of explaining himself.  
  
"Absolutely. I just wanted to-"  
  
He saw Blaine standing in the doorway, wrapped in his cotton robe. His wide bleary eyes, slightly bloodshot and puffy from the night before, combined with his unruly mop of hair and the slight unintentional pout of his lower lip made him look almost childlike. Nervous. Abandoned. Vulnerable.  
  
He wondered if Blaine had ever told anyone else about his father like this, about what his upbringing had taught him about himself. He doubted it; from the way the man looked now, he kept it pretty bottled up. That didn't surprise him, not the way Blaine had always kept himself perfectly pressed and presentable, always putting on a brave face, a big grin for the crowd...even though he was more relaxed now than he had been as a teenager, he still radiated tension like pulling the wrong string of his shirt (or the wrong strand of his slicked-down hair) would unravel the man entirely.  
  
No wonder New York had scared Blaine. He spent his entire life being scared of everything he thought might be true.  
  
"What's going on?" His dad sounded more concerned now, and Kurt knew if he didn't come up with an answer soon he would have a very worried man on the doorstep just as soon as he could get a flight out and, y'know, figure out where he was staying. Very worried and ready to knock heads of anyone who had caused his boy trouble.  
  
He had never thought of that as being a rare thing before. That's what fathers did where he grew up. So he had thought.  
  
"Nothing, Dad," he said finally, and Blaine's expression turned sick for a moment, then unreadable. A wave of guilt swept over him; did Blaine resent him for having this kind of relationship? Was it a painful reminder? He wasn't sure - and he couldn't help it either way, so it didn't really matter. What mattered was- "I just wanted to say, I love you." His eyes fixed on Blaine as he said it, and his lover's mouth twitched into a faint but appreciative smile.  
  
There was awkward silence on the other end for a moment, then the response: "I love you too." It was thick with sincerity in a way that made him a little uncomfortable even though he needed to hear it; he expected the man on the other end of the phone felt the same way. "You take care of yourself out there, ok? I know it's not as dangerous as New York, but they've got all sorts of serial killers and stuff."  
  
"I'll be fine."  
  
"And let me know if you need anything." By 'anything', at this distance, he knew his dad meant money. It was the only thing his dad could usually offer from states away, and he knew it bothered the man. If Finn needed help with anything, he was right there - babysitting, fixing the furnace, a place to stay if the pipes burst - but it wasn't like that for them.   
  
Rather than pointing out that Mercedes' contract was covering everything - and paying him a little on top of his accommodations and expenses - he took the offer in the spirit in which it was intended. "I will," he assured his father.  
  
"Good. Talk to you later." There was a pause for a moment before the line cut off, and Kurt reluctantly placed the receiver back in its cradle, rubbing at his ear for a moment to regain proper feeling after being on the phone so long.  
  
"How's your family?" Blaine asked, his voice a little parched and weak.  
  
"They're good," Kurt replied, because explaining the lifetime they had lived while he'd been flitting around New York would have been too difficult...and because anything other than a simple answer felt like rubbing Blaine's nose in it.   
  
"Good." The smile was tired, but he was trying. "I'm glad."  
  
"Just let me know how much I owe you for the bill. I called a few people in New York, too." When Blaine looked curious, Kurt explained, "Wishing them a happy Fourth. Asking about the festivities out there. Did you know there are tall ships coming from 55 countries?"  
  
"Really?"  
  
He wasn't sure whether the question was about the ships or the reason for his call. Even if Blaine knew he was glossing over the latter, Kurt wasn't sure there was anything he could say to explain it better. "I'll ask John to send pictures once they're developed, it sounds pretty amazing."   
  
He wanted to say something about the previous night's conversation, but he wasn't sure what exactly - and Blaine looked too drained by it all to go into it again. Kurt couldn't blame him; he wasn't sure how an emotionally-exhausting night could create its own hangover, but it had. Instead, he stood and padded over to Blaine, wrapping the shorter man in his arms. He felt Blaine relax - not completely, but enough - and rest his head against his shoulder as Blaine's arms wrapped around him. They stood in silence for a few minutes even as Blaine's fingers gripped at him a little tighter than he would have liked.  
  
"Let's go make brunch," Kurt suggested, and he felt Blaine smile at the suggestion of a distraction. "I'm thinking waffles with a mix of red and blue berries - nice and festive."   
  
"And tasty," Blaine agreed as they slipped out of the embrace and took one another's hand.  
  
"And tonight we'll drive up into the hills to watch the fireworks."  
  
"Which fireworks?"  
  
"For the holiday-"  
  
"No, I meant...from where?"  
  
"I have no idea," Kurt replied as he led Blaine to the kitchen. "But we should be able to find a spot where we can watch a few different sets. Just you and me looking out over the city."  
  
"That sounds perfect." Blaine sounded almost relieved as he opened the fridge to start pulling out ingredients. "You know, I can't remember the last time I saw fireworks."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Fog," he replied with a grin. "Almost every year, they're covered up." As he moved toward the counter with the milk carton, Kurt caught him by the waist and pulled him into a gentle kiss. "What was that for?" Blaine asked as they separated.  
  
"Just...being grateful for what I have," Kurt replied.  
  
For the first time in a long while, he realized just how much that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploads for this series will slow down quite considerably from this point on, because Liberationists is still in progress.


End file.
